


Question of Honour

by KelticBanshee



Series: Seduction Moves 'verse [17]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-26
Updated: 2011-03-26
Packaged: 2017-10-18 14:57:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 75,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/190076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelticBanshee/pseuds/KelticBanshee





	1. Ianto

He can't help the smile as his head almost hits the wall when Jack pushes him against it. It has been too long – five days, if memory serves – since the last time they managed to sneak out of the Hub and back to his place. One of Jack's hands settles on his neck, thumb tracing patterns on his cheek; the other pulls at his tie as they kiss. And surely that last night doesn't really count – they barely managed to make it to the bed before they fell asleep, after yet another day at Torchwood. One of those when the Rift seemed to throw everything it had – and then some - at them. He undoes Jack's shirt. The greatcoat gets in the way but he's too busy to push it off Jack's shoulders.

Jack pulls him away from the wall and they half-stumble, half-walk their way down the corridor, towards the bedroom. He loses track of what falls where and who loses what item of clothing long before his bare back hits the door frame. Jack has a way of getting his full attention, of making everything else seem irrelevant, even all those trivial things he would normally notice. He closes his eyes, drowning in the heat, in Jack's hands here, there and everywhere, in soft kisses and teasing bites. Runs his hands up Jack's back, along Jack's shoulders, down Jack's chest, and the whole world narrows to _here_ and _now_.

He pushes Jack away just enough to move into the bedroom. They stagger. Almost stumble. He falls onto the bed, Jack towering above him for a moment before lying beside him. A single finger traces his nose, his lips, his jawline, bringing back memories of other places, other times, other lovers. He pushes the thoughts away and pulls Jack closer. If there is one thing he has learnt in his time in Torchwood is to make the most of now.

So he rolls them around, until he can comfortably straddle Jack and slowly kiss his way down Jack's chest.

 _Blip_.

Tracing every rib, every muscle.

 _Blip_.

Following paths he knows only too well. Finding new ones.

 _Blip_.

Slides down a bit, so he's sitting on Jack's thighs.

 _Blip_.

When he looks up, the image of Jack – hands above his head, eyes fixed on him, lips parted – almost makes him forget that annoying blipping noise that can only be...

"Leave it." Jack grabs his hand when he makes to move away and pulls him down, almost knocking the air out of him. "Whatever it is, it can wait." Giving him his best come-hither smile and eyebrow waggle, Jack taps a few buttons on his wriststrap. The blipping noise stops. "You, on the other hand, require immediate, urgent attention."

A hand settles on his hips, heat radiating from it. He swallows as it starts moving, barely there when travelling up his side, gripping tight when sliding down again. He goes with it, eyes on Jack. Sensations flood his body and mute any protest his mind manages to come up with, any argument about why it is not such a good idea to ignore the alarms that he routed from the Hub's computers to his PDA. Jack tries to unseat him; somehow he stands his ground, pressing his knees harder into Jack's sides, stubbornly refusing to move. Gives Jack what John once called 'the Wicked Jones Smile', with capitals.

John.

Memories come rushing back, more persistent the more he tries to ignore them and push them away. He freezes, one hand almost on Jack's belly, the other scratching its way down Jack's right arm. Barely a heartbeat before he moves again. Thwarts another of Jack's attempts to roll him over before leaning down to nibble at Jack's neck, then slowly making his way down again.

"You seem to have spent too much time around a certain rogue before he vanished." Jack is smiling, that same smile he always seems to have whenever John is the topic of conversation. The one that says too many things and nothing at all and he is never quite sure how to interpret. "Picked up some tricks from him." He shakes his head, not wanting to think about John right now. He doesn't want to talk about him, doesn't want to remember how John disappeared just as things were starting to settle down, just as he was starting to discover some pretty interesting things about life, the universe and everything else – version with extra Time Agent and without sanity. "As long as we don't end up turning foreplay into a fight more often than not..."

"I'm not him, Jack." It comes out sharper than he intended. He looks away, biting his lip, struggling to silence both the apology and the annoyed remark fighting to come out. The last thing he needs right now is another conversation to turn sour, to end in bad moods and silent treatments that will last about a week, to be followed, of course, by a tacit agreement not to mention it ever happened. But he is getting tired of always being the one who apologises.

Jack stares at him, a hint of disbelief on his face. As if Jack were surprised. As if it hadn't occurred to him that, not so long ago, Jack was the one to disappear without as much as a by-your-leave. As if he didn't see just how ironic it is for Jack fucking Harkness to be commenting on other people's vanishing acts. He takes a deep breath, trying to stay calm.

"I know." Jack brings a hand to his cheek, sounding almost apologetic. He pulls a face. There is a lot they both know yet seem to forget more often than not. They both miss John, that much is obvious. They are both trying to get used to being just the two of them again. They just have different ways of dealing with it.

"Doesn't look like it, sometimes." He moves away, pausing only to leave a soft kiss on Jack's lips before standing up. "Should check the alarms. It could be something." He turns his back towards Jack and starts fishing for his clothes in the chaos they left on their way in, barely resisting the urge to remind the world in general – and Jack in particular – of a few things.

"Ianto..." He stops in his tracks. Takes yet another deep breath before spinning around, hands busy doing up the buttons of his shirt. He shoots Jack a death glare that cuts the apology off before it even starts. Somewhere inside, it feels like the dam that was holding back all this... mess inside him is about to burst. He's not entirely sure he even wants to do anything about it.

So he doesn't.

"I'm tired, Jack." Slowly, Jack sits up, looking puzzled. "I'm tired of all this." He pauses for a second, hands halfway through doing up his tie, struggling to squish the whirlwind in his head into words. "I miss him too." And how it hurts to say it out loud. "But I try not to remind you of all the ways in which _you_ are not _him_." Jack grimaces and looks away. "I try not to mention that at least he _was taken._ That _w_ hat hurts is that there is nothing I can do to find him and bring him back. That this should give you an idea of what it was like when you just _walked away_." A very long moment of silence.

"I had good reasons." Jack sounds positively defensive, springing out of the bed and starting to get dressed. He forces himself to hold Jack's gaze, wondering just how stupid it is to bring all of this back out into the open when they had managed to pretend it wasn't there for so long. But he's tired of walking on eggshells around certain things. It chokes him, suffocates him sometimes. Even if he hadn't noticed until John came around and reminded him how it feels to be close to someone without having too much stuff hidden in the 'do-not-mention' closet.

"I didn't know that at the time." He swallows, loosening the tie a little. "All I knew is that you disappeared." He pulls the cuffs of his shirt in place. Runs a hand through his hair. "I am here, Jack, but it doesn't seem to be enough these days." There. Said it. And he'll probably kick himself later when all Hell breaks lose – hopefully not literally – and everything gets worse than it already is. "I'll be in the car."

He doesn't even look back as he leaves the room, grabbing his jacket as he walks past it.

Sitting behind the wheel of the SUV, he can't tear his eyes from his front door. Part of him wants to go back inside, pretend that he didn't say any of the things he said, and end the night with a fantastic round of make-up sex that isn't such because nobody really would apologise. Part of him knows they have been down that road before and eventually things come back to bite them. So he just sits there, watching, waiting, trying and failing not to nervously tap his fingers on the wheel. Jack seems to be taking his time, although he's not sure whether the delay is supposed to annoy him or give him – them both – a chance to calm down. Probably all at the same time. He rolls his eyes.

Life with Jack – with Torchwood – can be completely fucked up sometimes.

Jack eventually comes out five minutes later, a hand coming out of a greatcoat pocket to close the door behind him, and raises an eyebrow when noticing he is in the driver's seat. He learnt long ago that Jack's driving is dangerous enough on a good day. He only realises a snarky remark had been preemptively forming in the back of his head when Jack pointedly doesn't slam the door shut, instead closing it carefully.

The silence in the vehicle is awkward, even after he turns the key and the engine roars into life. Jack busies himself with his wriststrap, probably trying to figure out what the alarms picked up. Jack could just _ask_ , but that would imply _talking_ and that seems to be out of the question now _._ He keeps his eyes on the road, heading towards Cardiff Castle through almost empty roads. Still, he stops at every red light, respects every speed limit. In the passenger seat, Jack fidgets impatiently. He pretends not to notice.

"Do we know what it is?" There's a certain iciness to Jack's words as they get off the SUV and take scanners and ammunition from the boot. The almost worried look Jack gives him when he grabs a couple of extra magazines for his gun, however, tells a different story. The one about how much Jack hates to put people's life at risk, no matter how many times said people make it clear that working for Torchwood is their choice.

"Time bubble." It took some time, but he finally managed to reprogram Tosh's systems to detect and record them in the same way as Rift spikes. In the three weeks since the bubbles first appeared – the three weeks since John vanished – they have been more and more frequent, with no pattern on where or when they appear. So far, nothing has come through, and, as far as they know, nothing – nobody – has been taken. The only thing they can do is check them when they appear, and keep their fingers crossed that nothing nasty will be waiting for them. "Could be nothing."

"Could be the start to another Hell of a day." He bites back the need to say that it is still yesterday as far as his body is concerned, and will be until he manages at least two or three hours of sleep, a shower and a pot of fresh coffee. Almost slamming the boot closed, he makes sure the SUV is locked – he doesn't fancy joining Owen in the wall of fame of those who let the Torchwood vehicle open for whichever thief happened to be around – and follows Jack into the Castle. Locked doors are never a problem for Torchwood. Not for Jack, anyway.

The Castle is eerily quiet. Full of shadows that move just out of the corner of his eye and make him look around and point his gun at every hint of nothing. He tries – and fails – not to think of how different this place is at night from its sunny, lively daytime counterpart. A few steps to his left, Jack covers the other side of the courtyard as they slowly make their way towards the Norman keep.

"Scanner?" Jack's voice startles him. Turning around, he holds his torch in the crook of his arm, brings the gadget – one of Tosh's little wonders – out of his pocket and tosses it towards Jack, pointedly ignoring the annoyed look that Jack shoots him. "Keep your light down! I don't want to announce we are here."

He stops in his tracks, lowers both gun and torch and stares at Jack in disbelief.

"Could we leave everything not work related _outside_ work?" Jack turns around and opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again. He watches Jack try a couple more times, but no reply comes. "This is complicated enough as it is without bringing any more shit into it." He holds Jack's gaze, hoping that didn't sound as hurt – and almost desperate – as it did in his head.

It is Jack who, after a few heartbeats, looks away and nods.

"We'll deal with that later." He can hear everything Jack is not saying: 'once the world is safe again, at least for the time being'. Bloody Torchwood, always taking precedence over _everything_. Sometimes he just wants to shout that they are too busy saving Humanity to remember that they too are part of it. "Straight ahead. By the moat." He nods, trying not to pay too much attention to the uneasy feeling that something is _very_ wrong. Then raises his gun and aims it just over Jack's shoulder.

With a confidence that stems from way too many close shaves, Jack spins around, Webley in hand, and he has to be grateful for Jack's implicit trust. But there is nothing there. Not even the shadow he saw just a moment ago. The faint footsteps he heard have disappeared as well. He swallows, pushing away the thoughts, calming his heart.

He must be imagining things.

"Seeing ghosts?" There's a hint of a smile in Jack's voice, despite everything they were just throwing at each other. As if something had suddenly made sense again. As if something had brought back all the many reasons why they stick together, despite all the skeletons in the closet and all the pain and all the things that aren't quite right but don't really matter. "Anyone we know?" He nods, reluctant, and puts his weapon down.

"I thought I saw John." Jack raises an eyebrow. He walks away, keeping his eyes on the scanner in his hands, before Jack can ask questions he doesn't really want to answer right now.


	2. John

The first thing he notices after he materializes again is that his headache is gone. So are the nosebleeds and the nausea. By the Goddesses, he hadn't really noticed just how bad they were. With a sigh of relief, he takes a deep breath – all damp earth and pollution and freshly mown grass. Maybe Zoe was right and being as sensitive to time as he is sometimes sucks, particularly when it threatens to kill him. Not that he would ever argue with Jack's latest medic when she uses that flat, almost deadpan tone and tells someone they are fucked, and not in a good way.

Slowly, his mind starts to clear, and he finds it easier to focus and think.

The second thing he notices is that he isn't where he wanted to be. This is, if memory serves, Cardiff Castle, with its wonderful views of the city from atop the Norman Keep and its Victorian mansion full of secrets nobody is even _trying_ to unravel. Oh, if people only knew just how much this place hides... He has to wonder whether botching time jumps is becoming his new style – this one makes two in as many days. At least they didn't end up in the moat, and this time he's got an excuse – this was _not_ an easy jump. Particularly not with a passenger.

Which brings him to the third thing that filters through the cotton wool in his brain – said passenger is nowhere in sight.

"Oh, great." He rolls his eyes and looks around, hoping his companion didn't end up too far away. Although one never knows, with these things. "What's next, unexpected welcome committee?" He curses as a door opens at the other end of the grounds and two beams of light emerge from it. Then swears some more – one of the figures is wearing a greatcoat. Not the person he was hoping to find. "So much for the plan."

He can't move. He knows he should try to disappear and not be found, but he can't tear his eyes from the second figure. He would recognize him – the gait, the outline, the stance – anywhere. He swallows, mouth suddenly dry. Fights the urge to run towards them, the almost primal instinct to get away and try to salvage the plan – there may still be a chance of pulling it off without involving Torchwood. He has almost managed to tear himself from where he stands when he catches a snatch of conversation.

"... Leave everything not work related _outside..._ " Ianto's voice is faint in the distance, but so loaded with annoyance, so plain and simply _hurt_ , he's not surprised to see Jack look away. Ah, lovers' quarrels... He can't help the smirk. Nothing wrong with them, as long as they end up with fabulous make-up sex. Which, with those two, they surely do... if and when they both get past their stubbornness and actually sort things out. Which might take a while.

Scratch that, knowing Jack, it _will_ take a while.

"... Deal with that later." He shakes his head, wondering how Jack still manages to behave as if he didn't know a thing about human nature, despite his many years in this Universe. Taking a deep breath, he opens his wriststrap and pushes a couple of buttons, disappearing into thin air just as Ianto raises his gun and aims towards him over Jack's shoulder. When he reappears at a safe distance, hidden in the shadows atop the Keep, Jack has followed Ianto's lead and is pointing his Webley towards the empty spot he was standing on just a moment ago. He smiles – it's good to see those two still trust each other, despite everything. At least at work.

A hand on his shoulder makes him jump and curse – getting sloppy will cost him dearly one day. Before he can turn around and draw his weapons, Jack walks into his field of vision. He shakes his head. Even after this long, after all his years in the Agency, this is one of those time-travelling things that his brain still takes a beat to process: Jack by his side, Jack down on the castle grounds. The same Jack, at different points of his personal timeline. Jack – his Jack – carries too many scars, has lost too many battles, has forgotten way too much and can't forget the things that still make him suffer. Jack – the one from this point in time – carries less weight on his shoulders, although still too much. Same man, but oh so different.

"This doesn't look like the Bay." Jack is almost smiling, eyes following Ianto around the grassy courtyard. He bites back yet another explanation of just exactly how complicated getting them both in one piece to _here_ and _now_ was – Jack knows as well as he does and he is not about to play into anyone's games. Especially not Jack's. "Someone needs to retake their time travelling lessons."

"Shut up." Oh, how he would love to take the bait and get into an almost-fight with Jack – they do always lead to fantastic make-up sex, after all. Jack gives him a sideways look and crouches behind the wall, grabbing the sleeve of his jacket and pulling him down. He glares back, but Jack simply ignores him. "I told you – jumping around these times is complicated. We are lucky to be _when_ we wanted." He shoots Jack a questioning look, half-expecting him to point out that, well, in fact, no, they are not. Which – excuse the sarcasm – would be just what he needs right now, after _everything_ that hasn't gone according to plan.

Assuming, of course, that the half-baked idea they started with could be called a plan.

"Mostly." He pulls a face. Grabs Jack's shoulder and turns him around. They stare at each other, just like they've always done when working together. One, two, three heartbeats. Jack gives him a sad smile before looking down to the figures now leaving the castle grounds. He closes his eyes and pushes everything aside. They are not here on a social visit. Despite however much he wants to... Shaking his head, he looks at Jack again, as they both straighten up, leaving the cover of the parapet now that they are alone.

"What do you mean, mostly?" Hands on his hips, he turns towards Jack, who is already heading for what looks like a set of narrow, treacherous steps. Jack stops on his tracks, but doesn't look back. So he takes a few steps forward.

"We've got... less than a week before all Hell breaks loose." There it is again. Pain, self-blame, and hurt. Over thirty years after it all, and Jack still blames himself for _everything_. On a good day, a bit of alien hunting and a good round of life-affirming sex may just help take Jack's mind off it. On a bad day like today, with Ianto barely a few metres away... He shrugs, not really wanting to think about it. "Could have done with two."

"Well, next time, we can use _your_ Vortex Manipulator." Jack looks over his shoulder for just a moment, almost as if he were about to say something. "That'll take us far." Sometimes some people need a good kick in the ass to focus their minds, and he's more than happy to oblige.

"And, you nearly got us caught." He snorts. Is Jack going to have a go at him for every single thing that doesn't go as expected? He gives Jack a disbelieving look. "You and that flamboyant jacket of yours."

" _My_ flamboyant jacket?" Ah, the cheek of it. "As that medic of yours used to say... Pot. Kettle. Black." At the mention of Owen, Jack slouches, as if the weight he is carrying had just doubled. "Come on." He pats Jack's shoulder, walking around him to leave a soft kiss on those tempting lips. "Let's get this started." He taps a few buttons on his wriststrap. Takes a deep breath as the golden cloud of the Time Vortex wraps around them.

Hopefully they'll end up where they want to be this time.

"I still think this is a stupid idea." As they descend on the invisible lift, John keeps looking around, expecting Ianto or the Jack in this timeline to appear out of nowhere and point a gun or three at them. "Couldn't you do this from somewhere else? Off-site backups and all those things your techies always blab about?" Jack shoots him a sideways look, but he's smiling. Sort of, anyway. Back in the Hub, in a time before the whole world went to shit.

Talk about bitter-sweet moments.

"Ianto would probably notice the information came from the backup servers into the main systems in here. Don't ask me how, but he would. I think he spent too much time with Toshiko." Jack's smile widens, trying to hide the fact that certain names still hurt. "Also, we need to find something in the Archives, and leave it somewhere a bit more obvious, so that my past self can make the connection between the kids and the 456." He pulls a face. He's pretty sure this is not going to work the way Jack expects it to.

"How long have we got till the turtle-doves get back?" Jack is still looking around, drinking the sight of what was once so familiar. He can't help but wonder if his own room is still as he remembers it. He left a couple of things behind when that bloody time distortion took him away and he hasn't managed to replace them since. Sentimental value, and all that. He has had those cuffs for a long time, after all. Shaking his head, he pushes the thoughts away. No time for that right now.

"About twenty minutes." The lift clicks and clanks into place once it reaches the bottom. Jack steps down, turns around and gives him a mocking smile. "Ianto is driving tonight." With that, Jack heads off to his own office – or, better said, the office of his past self – almost happily trotting up the stairs. "He always drives slowly when he wants to get back at me for something." Leaning on the door frame as he walks into his office, Jack looks at him again. "Go down to the Archives. Look for the 1965 reports, they should be somewhere under 'undisclosed'." Gee, Jack, thanks very much. That will definitely help, giving the size of that section. "Bring them up, amongst a few files related to time distortions – Ianto will go through a few of those after you disappear."

With a mocking salute, he heads down to the first levels of the Archives. It feels strange to walk these corridors again, knowing that in just a few days they will be blown up, unless they do something. Thankfully, his security code for the Archives has not been disabled – he will need to have a chat with Ianto about this if they all make it through. Security – or rather paranoia – should be a priority in this place.

He's never quite liked being down here. Not even with Ianto. Not even when it meant more fun than actual work. It has nothing to do with the musty smell that plagues these places, and a lot to do with the meticulously aligned, never-ending rows of shelves and boxes and filing cabinets. All full of discarded history and knowledge, dormant, waiting to be needed again. He's not quite sure _why_ , but he finds that unnerving. Even more so than the cryogenic stasis chambers a few levels below.

Fortunately, he actually did pay attention when Ianto tried to explain the complex mechanism of indexes and sub-indexes and categories used in the Archives. Which means it only takes him nine minutes, forty-three seconds to find what would have taken Ianto about nine seconds. He can imagine the smug smile Eye Candy would give him if he knew. Holding a pile of files under his arm, he opens his wriststrap and taps a few buttons.

"Jack? I found what we need. Still no sign of your past self?" He looks around one last time, making sure everything is exactly as he found it – although Ianto will most likely notice somebody rummaged through some of the sections, so he has actually gone through a few unrelated areas just to cover his tracks. With a bit of luck, Ianto will blame it on Jack or Gwen trying to find something without bothering him.

"Still clear. Nothing on CCTV either." A pause. A heavy sigh. "We'll know in plenty of time."

He pulls the door closed behind him and heads back towards the main area of the Hub. He can't resist, as he walks by his bedroom, to go in. Everything is just as he left it, thirty years – or thirty hours – ago, bed still unmade, stuff still scattered all over the place. He slides his hand under one of the pillows, brings out his handcuffs and puts them into the back pocket of his jeans, trying not to think of all the lovers he has shared them with.

The rest... he'll be back for it, if everything goes to plan.

Or rather, his past self will. Soon.

"Sorry about that, had to stop for some supplies." He places the stack of papers on Jack's desk and flashes a smile, even though Jack seems to be too busy doing _something_ under the desk, and this time he really doesn't want to know. "Have you got any idea all the stuff you have in those Archives of yours? So much you could do with it..."

"Had." Banging his head in the process, Jack stands up, rubbing the back of his neck absent-mindedly while flicking through the reports in front of him, before putting them under the already unstable pile on one of the corners. "Still haven't stopped this place from being blown to smithereens, remember?"

"Have. Will have." Tucking his thumbs on his gun belt, he pulls a face. "Call me an optimist." Jack gives him a tense smile. End of the Universe and all that, but, in the end, it all comes down to the same 'small' things than any other problem with the timelines. Preventing two people from meeting. Ensuring two other people meet. Making sure a ball breaks a window, or being there to stop it. Most people go through life worrying over the 'big decisions', and 'important moments', not realizing that, sometimes it is the smallest of things that change History. "So. What's next on the agenda?"

"Well, the new data is in the Torchwood systems, so they can correlate it to the readings when the 456 arrive. I've also uploaded the program we will create, based on the readings we will get during the original timeline, so they detect the signal the 456 will send to Whitehall." For some reason, it feels strangely reassuring to hear Jack fuck about with grammar to make temporal sense. "I assume your wriststrap is still hooked to the computers so we'll have eyes and ears in here?" He gives Jack an innocent smile – one he knows Jack stopped believing long ago – and nods. "Well, then, I'll leave myself some cryptic notes, and we'll get out of here before they get back."

With a few clicks, Jack brings up the CCTV images around the Plass, the Tourist Office and the car park, and, before he even has time to check the screen, Jack is running towards the garage exit.

"What the Hell?" He bolts after Jack, alarms ringing and lights flashing just as the door closes behind them. "I thought you were keeping an eye on them!" Barely a whisper as they walk along the corridor and he fidgets with his wriststrap, deactivating the loops on the internal CCTV that he established before they went in.

A few steps ahead, Jack looks over his shoulder, looking almost apologetic.


	3. John

He's starting to get a feeling of déjà vu every time he walks into this room. He was here – mostly alone – when he came back hoping to get on Ianto's and Jack's good books and pants. He was here – with Jack – when they finally returned to this time hoping to rebuild both Torchwood and whatever was left of Jack after... He swallows, pushes the thoughts away and concentrates on the view out of the windows. Even at night, Cardiff Bay is stunning.

"We are _not_ doing that again." It comes out sharper than he expected. Jack, still silent, slams the door closed behind him – he seems to be doing that a lot, recently, slamming doors, as if taking his anger out on them – and leans on it, eyes fixed on his feet. "We nearly got caught. And I really don't think your past self would take it kindly if he found _you_ of all people went into his little palace uninvited." Jack snorts and pulls what should be a smile but really isn't. "After all, I'm sure you expect your future self to be more considerate than that."

"No." He raises an eyebrow, not quite following. Jack smiles, almost properly this time, and he can't really stay mad at Jack for long when he does that, which is annoying. "I _know_ my future self will most likely be as big a pain in the ass as I am. Unfortunately, I can't design security systems for the New Hub that my future self is not aware of. If I could, trust me, I would."

"So, do you think they will crack it?" Jack shrugs, shaking the coat off his shoulders and draping it carefully over the back of a chair, just as he has just done with his jacket. There is an awkward moment when they stare at each other, and something stirs deep inside him when _yet another_ fucking mundane thing reminds him so much of Ianto it hurts.

"I hope so." He presses a few buttons on his wriststrap, the audio feed from the main area of the Hub slowly fills the room. Or rather, the silence of it. "We never saw it coming. Anything we can give them will help." Jack sits on the sofa by the window with a heavy sigh. He cuts out the sound, setting his wriststrap to record and alert if any of a series of key words is mentioned.

No point in torturing themselves with echoes of Christmas past.

"There was nothing for you to see before it happened. Ever thought of that?" Jack doesn't answer straight away, and that is never a good sign. Jack may not give a proper answer when asked, but will always, at the very least, try to divert the question. "There is no transmission to detect before the kids start acting weird. There was a price on your head barely a few hours after that." He takes a few steps towards Jack. "You were blown up to _pieces_ shortly after that."

"Do you... have this room booked since the hotel was built until it is no longer a hotel?" Jack turns and gives him an almost-smile, not-so-subtly changing the topic before this ends up in a discussion they've already had too many times. "It seems to always be on your name when you need it."

Part of him wants to shout at Jack to stop blaming himself for his lack of planning, for stepping into Thames House with no other plan than talking the 456 out of their demands, for not even thinking of what could go wrong. For getting Ianto killed, as Jack tends to put it when having one of those – ever more frequent – Really Bad Days. With a sigh, he turns around. He'll let Jack win this time, and not press the subject.

"Well, I learnt a thing or two when we were partners." He puts on his best smirk. "About how _not_ to deal with accommodation." He walks across the room and stands by the glass wall for a second, trying to pinpoint the Plass and the water tower. Shaking his head, he closes the curtains. "If it were up to you, we'd be stuck in some obscure... what do you call them in this century? Bed and breakfast." He makes his way to the sofa, drops his gun belt on the floor and sits beside Jack, elbows on his knees. Jack mirrors him. "So, thanks, but no thanks. I'll make sure we live according to our station."

"Station?" Jack snorts. Almost laughs. "What station?"

"Well, let me see..." He leans back, keeping his eyes on Jack, who seems to finally be recovering some of the vitality he lost after the 456. The idea that, if they play this right, they may be saving more than just the world in general, has obviously crossed Jack's mind. Not that he's one to say anything about it, having spent the last few days planning and plotting ways to make the most of their little trip to the twenty-first century. "We've saved the world a couple of times by now. And let's not forget the many times you have died for Queen or King and Country, which no doubt must have established a new record." Jack shakes his head, as if he were dealing with an impossible child. "I think we deserve a bit of... acknowledgement."

"If you say so..." Jack drops his head, revealing just an inch of skin at the back of the neck. Before he knows it, he's nibbling and licking at that soft spot where all tension in Jack's body accumulates, hands travelling up and down Jack's arm.

"Besides, if you had a decent back-up super-secret science-fiction base, we could be _there_ instead of _here_." Jack shoots him a sideways look that probably doesn't convey as much annoyance as it was intended to. He pointedly ignores it as he runs his hand through Jack's hair. "With plenty of equipment, toys and, more importantly, weapons." Jack snorts. "Tell your past self to sort that out as soon as we clear up all this mess, will you?"

" _You_ don't need any more weapons than the ones you carry on your person." He gives Jack a sarcastic smile and softly drags his nails down exposed skin on Jack's neck. Jack hisses. "We have things to do." He rolls his eyes at the obvious contradiction between words and voice. "Plans to make, since we couldn't..." Ah, the beauty of the tremor in Jack's voice. "Plan before we left." Yes, yes, he bloody well knows about that, thanks for reminding him that he was almost dying when they should have been figuring out how to fix this. Even back now, he can still feel Time around him being _wrong_. How could he miss that before? He shudders, trying to push away the memories. "We need to find..."

"We are here, without a plan, because we _had to_ leave before we had one." Jack pulls a face and opens his mouth to speak, but closes it again. If he didn't know better, he'd probably think that Jack is starting to believe it was all John Hart's fault again. Which wouldn't come as that much of a surprise, after all the times he has _allowed_ Jack to take his anger out on him, to blame him for not being there when they needed him, simply because that means that, for a moment, Jack stops blaming himself. And because he really should have been there and helped. "Now that I'm no longer about to slip into a coma, or have my head explode, or end up dead in some other equally painful way, we will figure out how to sort this out."

Well, maybe this is his chance to fix it all. To fix everything that went wrong, everything that broke Jack beyond belief, everything that destroyed every thread of hope of a glimpse of happily-ever-after that he never knew he wanted.

But that will have to wait. He pushes Jack towards the edge of the sofa and sneaks behind him, shushing him, one knee each side of him, arms wrapped around him, slowly undoing the buttons of the deep blue shirt, lips tracing patterns on exposed skin. Jack reaches for him, pulling him closer, hands gripping anywhere they can get purchase, and it feels _good_. Despite the knife on the inside of his boot digging uncomfortably on his shin, his jeans being already too tight, and the ever present sadness and almost defeat that still seems to hover over Jack – albeit a bit further away than usual.

"I never got to say a proper hello when I arrived." Barely a murmur on Jack's ear. "And you know that's my favourite part of dropping by for a visit." Jack lets out a needy noise. "So, first things first, we'll have a good, satisfying, relaxing, welcome fuck." A gentle bite on the muscle that looks so tempting when Jack tilts his head to the side. "Then, we'll deal with impending doom, apocalypses, snapping timelines and whatever else may be on the plate." He runs a hand down Jack's chest. Teasing. Jack locks fingers with his and pulls his hand lower. "Any objections?" The only answer he gets is something that could be a yes and a no and a maybe at the same time.

"Sofa is not as comfortable as it looks." He raises an eyebrow. Jack looks over his shoulder and they lose themselves in a sloppy, messy kiss that is more intention than actually anything, but still feels good. He holds back the questions – curious as he may be, he learnt very early on that Jack reveals much more when no questions are asked. "Ianto and I came here a couple of times."

"Hopefully not tonight." Jack shakes his head. "Good. Cos I don't fancy having to explain to your other self why we are here." He pulls Jack's shirt out of the trousers. Too much clothing in the way, but they have time. No need to rush. "No offence, but you can be a bit of a self-righteous and all-knowing bastard back now." Jack nods and twists around, staring at him for a long moment, then stands up and pulls him along by one hand, dragging him towards the bedroom. Gotta love big suites.

"I thought I had all the answers." Jack lets out a big sigh. There it is again, the shadows, the blame, the survivor's guilt. Jack brings a finger to his lips, pulling him close, and rests his forehead on his. "Shhhh." He nods. Hands tug at clothes and belts and buttons with an urgency that brings back memories. The contrast of teeth and nails and lips and hands on his skin, of cold sheets under him and hot skin on his when Jack pushes him onto the bed, of hope and desperation of what was lost and may never be lost at all, drives him mad. Sex – and life, and, who's he kidding these days, love – with Jack was always complex, always more than ever met the eye, always full of contradictions. But something in the way Jack's hands seem to reach out for someone who isn't there, in the way they stare at each other, eyes never wavering, never leaving each other, tells him there's much more going on today than ever before.

When Jack leans down for a kiss, nails trailing lightly on his chest, he can't help but bite. A moan of pleasure-pain, fingers suddenly pressing so hard he'll be bruised in the morning, and how he loves it. Even if it's still barely a shadow of what Jack used to be, even if there is still so much pain in everything Jack does that it's hard to believe it's been over thirty years since the whole world Jack had built went to shit.

"Shhhh." He nods again, pushes away the memories and loses himself in Jack, in the still intoxicating scent of pheromones, in the annoying way Jack seems to know just how to move to short-circuit his brain.

He bites Jack's shoulder when he comes, one of Jack's hands around his cock and Jack's movements inside him becoming more and more erratic. Wraps his arms around Jack, pulling him close, taking his weight, enjoying the moment of peace before conscious thought reasserts itself.

Wishes there were something he could say, but knows there isn't.

So he doesn't.

Sometimes words only get in the way.


	4. Jack: future

For the first time in quite some time, he wakes up rather than startle awake. The first light of dawn filters through the windows – it is still what most people would consider some ungodly hour in this tail end of summer. But he doesn't sleep much these days – not that he ever did – so even this slight respite is welcome. John always seems to somehow help keep the nightmares at bay. There's probably some drug or other involved, transferred in a kiss, a touch or a scratch. John – still snoring peacefully on the other end of the bed, one hand under the pillow – was always good with drugs.

When he stands up, his back cracks in what should be an alarming way, but it barely registers. The muscles in his neck protest in pain when he tilts his head. He ignores it and walks towards the bathroom. Just the usual after-effects of a night with John. The almost smile his reflection on the mirror gives him surprises him. Maybe he had really missed the company more than he would like to admit. The smile disappears with the first splash of cold water on his face. The uneasy feeling that no matter how many times he swears never again to rely on, to depend, to need, to want, someone will always sneak under his defences, remains.

Hands on the sides of the basin, head hanging, eyes fixed on the rivulets of water as they disappear down the drain, he shakes his head, pushing it all away. All the hopes, all the tiredness, all the achy muscles, all the maybes, all the 'why don't we', until all that remains is the enormity of what is at stake. He swallows, trying to stop the whirlwind in his head, the thumping of his heart. When he stands up, John's behind him, staring at him through the mirror. Making him wonder, once again, if John can actually read his mind or is simply too good at reading people.

"I'd love to warn them, Jack." He can hear everything John is not saying. He nods. He knows they can't warn them. He fucking _knows_ , but that doesn't make it any easier. He snorts at the irony of John Hart, of all people, reminding _him_ of duty and rules and regulations, of the greater good and what needs to be done. He opens his mouth to snap back just as John places a hand on his shoulder, and it is oddly comforting. "You shouldn't even be here. I should be the one doing this." If he didn't know better, he'd say John feels guilty about something.

"You were almost dead before we jumped back." He looks away, trying to ignore the memories. John complaining of headaches, and, for once, not just because he wanted to spend some time with Zoe in the medpoint. Then the nosebleeds, the blackouts, more frequent and longer. Zoe's flat tone when explaining that John is time sensitive. Just like Ada, who had started showing the same symptoms a couple of days before, and was lying on the bed next to John, unconscious and pale and more dead than alive. That oh so well rehearsed "there's nothing I can do" that doctors must learn on their first day in med school. Which left him only one option: taking John away before he slipped into a coma. "Couldn't let you have all the fun." The words taste bitter. Just like life has recently.

John nods and steps into the shower, hot steam filling the room. He follows. The world can wait for a bit longer.

"We could always... bend the rules a little." John's voice comes out muffled from under the towel - he can't tell whether John's really drying his hair or simply hiding behind it. He glares, knowing it would have no effect even if John could actually see it. "After all, given how fucked up time already is, it's not going to make much of a difference..."

"No." It sounds sharper than he intended, but that's not necessarily a bad thing when it comes to John. They had too many close shaves, when they were in the Agency, all because John could never play by the rules and always thought he could handle things that nobody could. The towel flies over his shoulder, landing in the bathroom, and John gives him a sarcastic smile. With a tired sigh, he reaches for his clothes – scattered all over the room – and starts getting dressed.

John rolls his eyes in a way that reminds him of Ianto more than it should and follows suit, looking every bit as annoyed as usual when putting his clothes back on. There is a moment of silence before the weight of everything that is at stake hits him again, almost knocking the air out of him. They are treading on treacherous territory. Any misstep _could_ have devastating consequences. Which is marginally better than doing nothing, which _will_ have devastating and disastrous consequences.

Just another day at Torchwood, yet again.

John opens his mouth, as if to explain to him – yet once more – all the many reasons why bending the rules wouldn't be such a bad idea. He's heard it all before, in just about every mission they were together. The 'nobody will notice', the 'while we are here'. He's seen it all go to Hell and beyond just because John couldn't take no for an answer, couldn't just stick to what needed to be done and nothing else.

But this is different. This is John sticking his neck out for others. Even if there is still something – someone – in it for him, it has to be the first time that John's offer of breaking – or bending – the rules could be classed as 'sort of – almost – doing the right thing'. He pauses for a second, halfway through doing up his shirt. Wondering whether he's being objective about this, whether John really has a point. Whether he's still desperate to do anything that would take away at least some of the guilt he's been living with ever since...

He looks away. John lets out an annoyed sigh, but doesn't say a word.

He adjusts his cufflinks and sits on the edge of the bed. There are too many threads to pay attention to. The 456 and their demands. Whitehall and their interest in hiding the past more than in dealing with the present. Torchwood struggling to survive and save the day at the same time. And all the people, all the individual lives caught in the crossfire: Alice and Steven, Rhiannon and Jonny and their kids, Ianto, Gwen and Rhys, Frobisher and his family, all the children. He shakes his head and flops back, crossing his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Wonders what they were thinking when they thought this was their best option.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when the bed dips beside him. He keeps his eyes on the mouldings on the ceiling; John will know full well what he was thinking about if he looks at him – damn that man and his uncanny ability to read him like an almost-open book. John rolls closer to him and drapes an arm over his belly, holsters and guns digging into his hip, but neither of them moves. It feels comfortable and familiar in an odd way. Most of their best missions were – will be – planned in a bed. Only neither of them was – will be – wearing this much clothing back then – when it happens.

English was never a good language to deal with time travel. Does his head in.

"We can't tell them. They shouldn't even find out we are here, if we play this right." He nods. The ghost of a kiss on his neck. He would wonder how John manages to concentrate on anything if he didn't know that John's brain runs on sex and temptation, the wilder the better. "But there is someone who could help." It's his turn to roll his eyes at the honey-voice, the one that almost always gets him to do what John wants. Something tells him he's not going to like the idea.

"And who would that be?" John leans on an elbow and looks down at him, all smug smirk and smouldering looks and cheekbones that are probably illegal somewhere. He raises an eyebrow, wondering whether to drag John down and postpone the world-saving part a bit more.

"I could help." He glares at John again. Useless and futile, he knows, but it makes him feel a bit better. "Not I, but, you know, my past self." Somehow it makes sense. John disappeared just a few days ago. If they could contact that earlier version and return him to here and now, maybe it would make a difference when things started going to Hell.

"Where did you go?" He's asked the question more times than he cares to remember since John came back, but has never managed to get an answer. He's not sure he'll ever get one, given how good John can be at keeping secrets. Just as every time he asks, John looks away, trying not to give anything away. Maybe it's time to push a bit harder. "Are you just trying to get yourself out of a tight spot here, getting your old self back?"

In a flurry of motion, John straddles him, one hand firmly on his chest, a small knife pressed against his throat. He doesn't even fight it. Just stares up at those impossibly blue eyes. John stares back at him, hands almost shaking. It's not the first time they end up like this – John's always had a penchant for violent demonstrations, but – at least with him – it's always been more a matter of posturing and pretence than actual threat.

Not that it would matter if it were different, anyway.

"If all I wanted was to help myself, I would have done it already." The knife presses against his skin just a bit harder, the cold blade bringing back memories of the many times metal has kissed his skin, both in pleasure and in pain. He tilts his head backwards, muscles tensing against it, offering John a better angle. "All it would take is a signal from my wriststrap that my past self could lock onto, just as he will lock onto your call."

There is a moment of stillness as he knife falters on his skin. John blinks, almost as if taking in the scene and seeing it for the first time, and sheaths the blade, running a hand just over where the blade was a second ago. Eyes never wavering. There is almost an apology in the gesture. With a sigh, John rolls away from him and stands up, turning towards the window. They stare at each other through the reflection on the glass.

"I know it changes things. I know it could affect the way things play out. But, if we tell him just enough, he could help." John purses his lips and almost looks worried. "We all know how things end if we do nothing, Jack. There's gotta be _something_ we can change that will give us an advantage."

There is such a charge of emotion in John's voice that he can't help the – probably sad – smile. So that is it. It looks like he's not the only one feeling guilty for what happened. Even though John wasn't there when it went down. Or _precisely_ because of that. Goodness knows he's got his fair share of ghosts like that, of times when he couldn't help, when he didn't figure out something was going on in time to do something about it.

"There has to be _something_ else we could do." John snorts and flops on the armchair by the window, staring right back at him. "We must have missed something, there must be..." He never gets to finish the thought.

"We went over all of this, Jack." He lets out a sigh. "Your own man in the government will order your execution. Somebody who _knows_ who you are and what you do and _chose_ to have you killed rather than ask for your help, just to cover up the past." John's voice is barely a whisper, all tension and tiredness at having the same conversation all over again. "What makes you think he'll change his mind just because you walk in with a solution on a silver plate? He'll take it, then throw you to the lions anyway." He looks away, not wanting to admit defeat, but John's right."There is nobody we can trust to do the right thing and fix the bloody mess that order will create."

"We could try..." John leans forward, elbows on his knees, brings up a hand and starts counting on his fingers.

"If we stop Agent Johnson from blowing you and the Hub up, we'll be flying blind." One. "There is not enough material to blackmail Whitehall just yet, and there won't be until _after_ the Hub blows up, which is of no use to us." Two. "Threatening to go public won't work either. Even if you tried that before Frobisher gets his hands on your family, it will only make him more determined to find a way to silence you. Social unrest and upheaval may be good for a con, but won't help us sort this out." Three. "Talking to your team is out of the question." Four. "And playing dirty and going personal with everybody involved, taking them out before they have a chance to kick-start this fucking mess, is apparently also out of the question." Five. "Did I miss anything?"

John glares at him, and he almost looks away. Yes, he knows, they've had this conversation about a thousand times ever since John first suggested that coming back and fixing things hands-on may be the only way to prevent this whole thing from happening. Still, he can't shake the nagging feeling that they are missing _something_. Something _important_.

And if there is one thing he's learnt in his life, it is to trusts his instincts.

"It's not the way we do things." It feels like being back in the Agency, having to rein in John's pragmatic approach to solving problems. He shakes his head. He never had much luck with that. Chances are he never will.

"I still think it is a good idea." John turns away. "He will have you killed, Jack. He'll threaten your family, the people you love." He shakes his head again, trying to sort the chaos in his head, to push away the siren call of revenge and retaliation and doing anything that would keep those he cares for safe. "Be like that if you want, then. Get all hung up on your morals and scruples."

"It's still not the way we do things." John closes his eyes, and for a moment looks almost peaceful, but he knows the storm that is raging under the calm, the flurry of thoughts and possibilities. John was always good at that, sieving through the many options, the likely consequences, the chances. Then weighing it all in, coming up with the best way to handle something.

Only something is different this time. This time, John _cares_. This time John is almost being _careful_ , compared to his usual self.

"Let's start at the beginning." He nods at John's words. Always a good option, starting from the beginning. It may give them something. It feels strange to have John being the sensible one, the level-headed one, the meticulous one, despite the occasional call to bend the rules. John opens his eyes, all determination and a hint of stubbornness. "Torchwood need to be ready for this before it happens. They need all the information we can give them." Sounds like a plan.

"But we can't talk to them." John sighs and leans back on the armchair again. There is a sadness on that expression he hadn't noticed before. He has to remind himself that he is not the only one who lost Ianto, nor the only one who blames himself for it. John's never admitted feeling guilty, but then again, John Hart doesn't do guilt, and all Hells in the Universe will freeze over – and those already frozen will melt – before that ever happens.

"I really think it's time we brought me back."

After twenty-five hours in a hotel room, charging room service to John's credit card – which seems to have _really_ good credit – and occasionally listening to the audio feed coming from the Hub, it becomes obvious the team are not getting any close to discover any of the clues they left for them. Ianto is tracking one Mr. Williams, who, apparently, or so Jack tells him, has a hitch-hiker inside him and will end up dead soon. Gwen is going through police reports, trying to identify anything that may be vaguely within Torchwood's remit, and still saying good morning to that picture of Toshiko and Owen on her desk. Jack – his past self – is busy discarding files of people that could have fitted perfectly in Torchwood – reluctant to drag anybody else into a job that will get them killed, most likely – while trying to figure out what took John Hart a few days ago.

If any of them have noticed that there were intruders in the Hub, that the Archives have been ransacked – well, not really, but Ianto used to consider anybody other than himself lying hands on his precious Archives 'ransacking' – and that they are being watched, they are hiding it well. Not at all good, for a secret organization that has survived for over a century.

"They are _never_ going to figure it out." John yawns, swinging his feet back and forth. John's lying on the bed, boots and weapons discarded – that alone should give him an idea of how _boring_ John thinks this is – eating marshmallows while they watch the highlights of the last few hours of footage. John's finally managed to hook his wriststrap to their shiny new laptop so they can watch it on the screen rather than in more appropriate three-dimensional images. "We need to do something."

"Not yet." This time, unlike the five before, John doesn't even bother to roll his eyes, instead just turns over onto his back, arms behind his head, and stares at the ceiling. He blocks the sounds of happy people sharing takeaway over a messy table, almost knocking over bottles of beer and passing along stupid gossip as if there were nothing more important in the world right now.

Because he remembers the time he was part of it, and a trip down memory lane is the last thing he needs now.


	5. Jack: present

After another sleepless night – he has to agree with Ianto, dozing off at his desk does most definitely _not_ count as sleeping - his whole body aches, and not in a good way. Stretching his back and tilting his head, he reaches for his mug of coffee, only to find out it isn't there. He blinks a couple of times, his brain sluggishly trying to make sense of it. There always is a fresh mug of coffee on his desk at this time of the day, particularly after pulling an all-nighter. Two, actually. His eyes drift, through the windows, to the dimly lit space outside his office.

For the second night in a row, Ianto is sitting in what used to be Toshiko's chair. Jacket discarded – probably hanging neatly somewhere – tie loosened up just a fraction, a look of utter concentration on his face. Ianto has been there all night. After a long – if boring – day . It's not the first night they spend in the Hub, working, but they aren't usually this quiet. There are always breaks – Ianto bringing coffee, or coming into his office for a drink. How and when Ianto found where he keeps his good Scotch is anybody's guess.

There has been none of that since the night they visited Cardiff Castle, chasing time bubbles they never found. Every moment since then, the silence between them feels tense. Feels _wrong_. It's not every night that he feels almost compelled to _apologise_. Almost. And not because Ianto has been withholding his caffeine supply for over 24 hours now. He is _not_ that easily manipulated.

With a sigh, he puts aside the paperwork he has been going through all day. This issue of the time bubbles is starting to get on his nerves. Every time they encounter one he goes over the Archives again, hoping to spot something he missed last time. Something that will give them a clue about what is happening and, more importantly, _why_. And, more importantly, how to stop it.

Yet every time he comes up empty. So all he can do is wait. Until their luck runs out and the bubbles start taking people – innocent people – just like the Rift has been doing for years. Until the bubbles start spitting out goodness knows what, from any point of time. He swallows. It could be even worse than opening the Rift.

He can't stand waiting. Never been good at it. It jars on his nerves, crawls under his skin in a way that few things can. Makes him want – _need_ – to do something – anything. That, in turn, often has consequences, and never of the good kind. He can be patient– if there is something he has learnt since waking up in GameStation is to be patient. If it serves a purpose. But waiting like this, not knowing what's coming...

He pushes the files to the edge of the desk, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he stands up. It takes a couple of yawns and a worrying crack from his left shoulder before his brain gets in gear again. It still amazes him what a few – make that a hundred odd – years working for Torchwood can do for sleeping patterns, or lack thereof. Not that he ever slept much, even back in his day at the Agency. Too many things – and people – to do, and too little time. He catches his reflection on the glass door smiling back at him. There were some good things. Even if it all did eventually turn sour. Shaking his head, he makes his way to where Ianto is still absorbed by work.

"Rewriting our security system?" He turns up the charm and tries to keep the words light-hearted but even he can feel the uncertainty in his own voice. Ianto doesn't even look back, eyes darting from screen to screen. He opens his mouth, wondering what to say, what to do, to dissipate the tension, the almost frosty atmosphere between them.

Maybe it's time they stop sweeping stuff under the carpet and pretending it never happened. Maybe bringing things into the open would help. Just like when he found out about Lisa. A good punch, a swollen lip and a bit of a shouting match – they could do without the death threats and the pointing guns at each other this time – could help clear the air and end up in fabulous make-up sex.

Suddenly something on the screen catches his eye. He frowns and stares at the data being displayed. It's definitely one of the Hub's system, even if he can't quite make out which, or what Ianto is doing to it. He raises an eyebrow. One of these days he's going to have to figure out exactly what the bunch of geniuses working for Torchwood in the last few years have been up to. He used to know these systems inside out, back in the day.

"Running a trace." He places a hand on the desk, the other on Ianto's shoulder, and leans forward, studying the waveforms on the monitor on the left. They look oddly familiar. _Intimately_ familiar. He feels tempted to forget it all, lick at that spot below Ianto's earlobe and just see how the night – the morning – ends up.

Then it all clicks.

"Vortex Manipulator signatures." Ianto nods and taps a few more keys. He moves to the other side of the desk, where another screen is showing a map of Cardiff and three blinking dots. "That's gotta be mine." He points at the dot overlapping the Plass. Ianto nods again. He stares at the other two. One of them is just across the Bay. The other is moving all over the city, appearing and disappearing. "Are you sure this is working?"

Ianto spins the chair around, almost knocking him off balance, and stares at him. No, that's not Ianto's stare, that's more Ianto's _glare_. The one normally reserved to Owen's worst puns, Gwen's most tactless remarks, and badly brewed coffee.

"Yes, Jack, the trace _is_ working. I checked, double checked and _triple_ checked." He looks away. "As I always do." Or tries to, but it's hard to escape Ianto's eyes. Makes him feel like a naughty schoolboy caught drawing cartoons of the headmaster. He nods, a sort of peace offering that is as far as he can concede right now. He knows Ianto is always thorough. "There are _three_ Vortex Manipulator signals in Cardiff at the moment." Ianto spins around again, bringing up a new set of data. "But there is more."

He places his hands on the back of the chair, staring at the screen in disbelief. His fingers curl on the soft wool of Ianto's jacket as he reviews the figures once and again. Hoping if he goes through them again they'll be different.

"The one on the other side of the Bay is identical to mine." Ianto nods yet again. "Just how accurate is this comparison?" He doesn't even want to begin to think about what this may mean. If that really is his own Vortex Manipulator... Crossing his own timeline, with all its consequences, doesn't seem like something he would undertake lightly. He would expect the same degree of care from his future selves.

But it can't be his past self either. He'd remember being here and now.

Unless it is something he did in the years he's missing. A cold, uneasy feeling settles in his stomach.

"As accurate as any of the Rift monitoring devices." Ianto reaches for the cup on the desk, only to put it down again – it's probably empty, or, even worse, full of cold coffee. "Which means, for this day and age, _very_."

He takes a step back when Ianto pushes the chair away from the desk and stands up. Watches as Ianto tiredly stretches his arms above his head before tidying up his tie and reaching for his jacket. They stare at each other for a moment while Ianto rebuilds his neat suit of armour, yawns and shakes his head as if trying to shake sleep away.

"We should check it out." Of course. If there are uninvited time travellers in twenty-first century Cardiff, Torchwood should take a good look and deal with them as needed. He's about to protest, to demand five minutes of his life when he can take care of everything and everybody that really matters. But he never gets to it. Ianto takes a step forward, barely a hint of that knowing smile on his lips, and places a hand on his cheek. All the anger from the night before seems to have vanished. "We'll sort things out later, Jack."

He purses his lips and nods before kissing Ianto. He half-expects Ianto to pull back and quietly remind him that, after all, they are in the middle of one of those fights – the ones they pretend they never have. But Ianto leans into the kiss, the thumb moving on his jawline just a little in a simple but reassuring caress. When they break for air, he is the one to step back. Taking in Ianto's quiet voice, soothing tone and calm demeanour. He allows himself a small smile.

Maybe they'll survive this, after all.

The drive to St David's Hotel is quiet, but not as tense as the one to the Castle the night before. They have barely said two words since they got on the SUV, but he doesn't feel the silence is chocking him. A lot of that is probably the fact that he is the one driving – he's never been a good passenger, in any kind of vehicle. It's not that he doesn't trust other drivers, other pilots. It's more that there are things he prefers to do himself.

"It's moved again." He blinks and steals a glance at Ianto, who is still tapping away on the scanner. "They are both in the hotel now." He can't help the chill that settles on the back of his neck. If the matching signature is really his own Vortex Manipulator, this is shaping more and more to be his old self. With what looks like John Hart in tow. And in the middle of one of those fights that used to end up with one of them – generally John – storming off the room and venting for a while before returning for a round or two of wall-shattering making-up.

"Together?" Ianto shakes his head.

"Cut me some slack, Jack, I only just modified the system to pick up on these things last night." There it is again, the hint of a smile in Ianto's voice. He takes a deep breath and feels his heart calm down a little. He hadn't noticed it was racing. "I can give you coordinates, but I can't figure out if they are in the same floor."

"Yet." Ianto sighs in an almost frustrated way that almost says 'yes, Jack, that _is_ the next thing I was planning to work on, stop reading my mind'. He smiles. Some habits die hard, or so it seems. Reading people seems too ingrained in him to ever vanish.

"Yet," Ianto eventually agrees. It won't be long before Ianto fine-tunes the program so it collects all the information they need, putting into practice everything that Toshiko shared during all those long nights. "Should call Gwen." He shakes his head. He promised Gwen the night off after she complained that her last three candlelit dinners with Rhys had been disrupted by aliens.

"We can handle it." Ianto looks at him and raises an eyebrow, questioning. He tries to silence the niggling feeling that he really must find some time off for him and Ianto as well, at some point in the next decade or so. Preferably before the interrupted nights take their toll on them.

"We don't even know what we are up against." He can't help but smile at Ianto's matter-of-fact tone, at the silent 'as usual' that goes unsaid. He takes the last turn towards the hotel, the tires screeching. Ianto purses his lips, but keeps quiet.

"We can handle it." Who is he trying to convince? He knows better than to think the two of them can handle everything. He knows better than to think that he can handle his past self, even if he knew what brings him here.

"If you say so." Ianto shakes his head, steeling himself in that quiet way that always seems to settle on him when Torchwood demands attention. There's a trace of banter in Ianto's voice, barely a shadow of what they normally share but always a good start after the nights they've had.

"I do." He slams the brakes, bringing the vehicle to a halt just inches away from the car in front, earning him a glare from Ianto. He snorts as he cuts the engine and pats Ianto's knee. And there it is, the hint of a smile on the edge of Ianto's lips.

"Shall I remind you of this conversation after everything goes wrong?" He chuckles. Ianto rolls his eyes.

"If you could, yeah." He opens the door and gets out, careful not to slam the door. He looks at Ianto over the roof of the SUV. "That'd be nice of you."

The receptionist on duty – a cute brunette they've met before, in some of their visits to the hotel – gives him a surprised and almost embarrassed smile when they walk in. Ianto shoots him a questioning look, but says nothing when he flashes a smile, turns up the charm and pretends to have lost his room key. She makes some remark about how being surrounded by too many attractive men can be bad for one's memory. He feels the grin freeze on his face as he takes the key card and walks away, struggling to keep a slow, steady pace as they make their way to the lifts.

He only notices he's pushing the call button as if he wanted to send it through the wall when Ianto gently clears his throat. With a sigh, he puts his hands in his trouser pockets and catches himself just as he's about to start pacing up and down. He's running short on patience tonight, it would seem.

"So." Ianto's voice echoes in the carriage as the lift doors close in front of them. "It would seem you are already here." He nods. "I thought your wriststrap didn't work."

"It doesn't." He turns around and leans on the railing, one hand each side, staring past Ianto at his own image on the mirror wall in front of him. The infinite reflections are disconcerting. As is the prospect of meeting himself – past or future. "At least not now." Crossing one's own timeline is something no amount of Time Agency training can prepare anyone for. "Hasn't for a long time."

"And you have no idea why you... or should I say, the other you, is here?" He shakes his head. Whenever his other self comes from, it won't be good news.

"Don't worry, I'll send me on my way and that'll be the end of it." Ianto snorts and raises an eyebrow in disbelief. He smiles back, pretending it doesn't still catch him off-balance when Ianto reads him like an open book. "Yeah, I don't think it'll be that easy either, but you can't fault me for..."

He never gets to finish the sentence. Ianto closes the space between them in a couple of quick strides and pulls him into a kiss, needy and sloppy and coffee-flavoured. He finds himself being gently pushed towards the corner, losing himself in the kiss. Wanting more. He fists his hands in the soft wool of Ianto's jacket. Needing more. Slides his hands under it, feeling cool cotton, wishing he could forget about Torchwood, drag Ianto into one of the posh suites and leave the world to fend for itself for a while.

Suddenly Ianto steps away, leaving him panting. He hears the calm, canned voice of the lift call their floor. They step out into the corridor and past a middle age couple that eye them with contempt. He nearly starts laughing as they turn the corner. Ianto shakes his head but is almost smiling. It's not easy to regain their composure as they make their way to the room they are looking for. Not entirely surprising, it is one of the most expensive rooms in the hotel.

He brings out his Webley in one hand, the key card in the other. Gets distracted staring at the look of concentration on Ianto's face – there's something about the way Ianto holds the stun gun that would make him pray never to be on the receiving end of Ianto's anger, if he were the praying type.

"Ready?" Ianto nods. He swipes the card on the reader, and pushes the door open. It slams against the wall behind it with a reassuringly loud noise. He steps in, Webley in front of him, and hears Ianto follow a few steps behind. He looks around the room and finds it empty. Gets to the bedroom door in a few strides, Ianto still in tow.

He almost drops the Webley. Draped on one of the chairs is a greatcoat – _his_ greatcoat. Which quite likely rules his past self out as the visitor. He wasn't really into uniforms back in his time in the Agency. Two pairs of blue eyes – and a pair of twin pistols – dart towards him.

He really should have expected this.

He really should have.

Yet he almost jumps out of his skin when his own voice shouts from across the room.

"What the Hell are you doing here?"


	6. Ianto

He finds himself blinking madly when he walks into the room. A couple of steps in front of him, Jack has drawn his Webley and is aiming it towards the bed. Sitting on the edge of the bed, in shirtsleeves, looking at him with wide eyes full of a tremendous sadness he's never seen in them before, is also Jack. He looks from one to the other, as if expecting one of them to vanish in a puff of white smoke, or in the blurry haze of alcohol. Not that he's been drinking, but with Torchwood one does never know what he may have crossed paths with.

On the other side of the room, twin weapons pointing towards both him and the Jack in the coat, is John Hart. His breath hitches. His throat is suddenly dry when he tries to swallow. His heart is pounding, and not only because of the adrenaline that tends to flood his system while on the field. He levels his gun at John, eyes taking in every detail. Almost lets out a sigh of relief when he notices that even the jacket is still around, carefully draped on a chair rather than just tossed on the floor. It's hard to resists the urge to smile even just a little.

Two Jacks in the room. Just when he thought the day – the one that is just starting after yet another night with barely a couple of hours of sleep on the couch in the Hub – couldn't get any more confusing. He tries to wrap his head around it, his brain sluggishly dragging out every nugget of information about time travel he can remember.

Still, all he gets out of it is a headache. And a big one at that.

"What the Hell are you doing here?" It's eerie to hear Jack's voice coming from Jack-sitting-on-the-bed. Then it hits him. It is almost-but-not-quite the same voice. It's full of... emptiness, for lack of a better term. As if this other Jack – with a few more lines around the eyes, and not of the happy kind – had at some point lost everything, and were barely existing, not living.

He should know. He's been there before.

He swallows again. One thing there seems to be consensus about time travelling is that meeting oneself is not a good idea. Jack murmured something about it weakening the fabric of time, which definitely sounds like a Very Bad Thing. Jack at any point in time would have known that. So why is this other Jack here? And what's John doing with him? Where, or rather when, do they come from?

"I should be the one asking you that." Jack's voice is deceptively bright when he answers. "After all, this is my turf. You are the one who shouldn't be here."

"Oh, you're gonna love this, Jack." John's voice is full of banter and snark. Between that and the grin, anybody would think John Hart actually doesn't _care_ about the weapons pointed at him. He raises an eyebrow, considering. No, probably John really doesn't care about things like that. "He's gonna get all territorial on you. Try to kick you out." With a shrug, John puts his weapons away and sits in one of the chairs, one foot planted indolently on the seat, arm around the bent knee. "Not that he ever was any good at that..."

"Enough!" It takes him a moment to realize the voice reverberating in the suddenly silent room is his own. Three pairs of impossibly blue eyes, soaked in varying degrees of sadness and regret, look at him. He swallows, skin prickling under the intense scrutiny, and slowly brings his gun down. "You two," he waves a hand at Jack-on-the-bed and John, "are going to explain exactly why you are here, or I'll personally throw you in the Vaults until you do." Jack-in-the-coat gives him a small, almost proud smile before turning his attention back to the intruders. John rolls his eyes and leans back on the chair.

"Sorry, Eye Candy, but that threat had more weight the first time." In a fluid move, John leaps to his feet and takes a couple of steps forward. "Find a new one for the next time we meet, will you? It's getting a bit boring." He bites back the growl, the urge to just walk away from everything. He is tired after yet another long day. Hungry. Caffeine-deprived. His patience is running short, and he doesn't have the time for games right now.

"Answers." He glares at John. "Now." At least, his brain supplies, this is John _after_ they met him last time. John that knows him, John that worked with them. John that wanted to stay and share their bed. Even if that meant working for Torchwood, if only to help keep them alive for a bit longer.

John he's missed.

"You are not going to like them." Something in the way John looks away tells him it is not a bluff. John grimaces and gets closer. Close enough to run a finger down his cheek and make him _shiver_ from head to toe. "And I don't particularly fancy being shot just because I am the bearer of bad news." Jack-in-the-coat snorts. "Seriously, Jack, just because that one time..."

"Answers." He puts the gun away and stands his ground. Tries not to think, not to want, not to let John tempt him into being the one that closes the – very small – gap between them. Clenches his hands into fists, trying to stop them for shaking. He can feel two pair of eyes on him, curious and intrigued. "Now." He shakes his head and looks straight at John. "Don't make me repeat that."

With a sigh, John moves away, sitting on the bed, hand placed casually on Jack's – the other Jack's – knee. Jack – his Jack – holsters his Webley and crosses his arms in front of him. There is a tense moment of silence that feels like it will all end in yet another Mexican stand-off.

"You know we can't," Jack-on-the-bed jumps in, hushing John with a sideways stare. He watches the silent exchange with a pang of something he can't quite place. Guilt? Understanding?

"Why not?" He should know the answer to that one. He went through the entirety of the Torchwood Archives while Jack was away, hunting down references to "The Doctor" and that blue box of his. That lead to time travel and the many times Torchwood had tried to use something like that to their advantage – almost always with catastrophic results. The records are in no way exhaustive or complete, but...

"Jack has surely explained to you how time travel works." It takes him a beat to process Jack's voice speaking of Jack in the third person – but it is Jack-on-the-bed talking. "Anything we tell you could alter the timeline, and we can't risk that." His Jack – he definitely needs to find a better way of differentiating them – snorts and opens his mouth as if to retort, but closes it again. "Never a good idea to talk too much when time travelling." The two Jacks exchange a silent look. "Especially not when visiting your own past."

"Didn't stop us before." Jack's voice is cold, with that anger that rarely comes out, but brings out Jack's darkest side when it does. He's not sure who 'us' refers to. What's the correct way of referring to a different version of oneself? It must be an eerie thing, being face to face with a carbon copy. With someone who is but isn't oneself. Who knows one inside out but has changed by experiences one hasn't yet gone through. He rolls his eyes and pushes away the headache. Not that it helps.

"Never with this much at stake." Barely a whisper, full of defeat and pain. John's hand grips tighter on Jack's knee, quiet reassurance between lovers that know each other only too well. He can't help but wonder. How far into the future do they come from? What brings them here?

"Weeeeeeeell..." John barges in with his usual bravado. "When you say never, you really mean..." A pause. Raised eyebrows. A calculating look. "Never. Yeah." John looks from him to Jack-in-the-coat and back to him. "I have to say, for once, even _I_ agree we have to play this one by the book, kids." Both Jacks snort, almost in unison, but there is a dark undertone to it. Even _he_ finds it strange that John Hart may choose to follow the rules.

"Let's start with something you can answer." Jack-in-the-coat flops on one of the chairs on this side of the room, closer to the door, effectively blocking the exit should anybody try to get away. "When do you come from?" The other Jack and John exchange a meaningful look, which his tired brain roughly translates as both of them telling the other to keep their mouth shut. "Come on, Jack, gotta give me _something_. Can't expect me to just sit here and _not_ ask."

"Jack..." John's voice is barely audible but carries all the things John never says. A sort of plead and command at the same time that makes his knees unstable and makes him want to kiss John senseless. Too many ideas start spinning in his head and damn it, he's been living with Jack for too long – he used to be able to keep a clear head no matter what.

Jack-on-the-bed swallows and shakes his head. Mutters something that could be 'cannot' but he can't really make out. Jack-in-the-coat lets out a tired sigh and leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. John gives Jack-in-the-coat a meaningful look, and he can't help thinking Jack should be able to decipher it, because even _he_ can tell there was a lot of information condensed in that simple gesture.

He's almost about to turn around and head down to the hotel bar for a good cup of coffee when Jack's – his Jack's – voice stops him in his tracks.

"How bad is it?" The other Jack raises an eyebrow and shoots John a death threat in a stare. How bad is what exactly? Has Jack already figured out what is going on?

"Don't look at me like that!" John stands up again and lifts his hands, claiming innocence. "I haven't told them a thing!" John paces around the room, eventually perching on the table on the far corner. "Can't blame me if your past self is, for once, using his brain, can you?"

"John's right." Speaking before thinking once again. He cuts short the long list of reasons why he really shouldn't be here right now. "Jack's been sulking in his office all night while I tried to figure out a way to locate Vortex Manipulators using the Rift scans." Jack – his Jack – gives him a look that promises to make him pay for daring to mention the word "sulk" and apply it to the mighty Captain Harkness. John raises an eyebrow and gives him an appreciative half smile. Jack-on-the-bed looks up, and the sadness in those eyes is almost unbearable. "So, unless John can make himself invisible and sneak past the Hub's security systems, he hasn't said a word to us." He pauses for a moment. "Unless, of course, he decided to take a trip to a few years ago and pass information to Jack back then."

With a sigh, he runs a hand through his head and collapses on another chair. His Jack gives him a bright grin.

"Told you he had the mind for time travel first time I saw him." John leans towards Jack-on-the-bed, one hand on Jack's shoulder, voice full of banter. It almost makes him smile. Makes him miss the few days they shared, back when the world was ending a few apocalypses ago.

"Never argued about that." Jack's eyes catch his, and there is the promise of a much-deserved night of sleep and sex and relaxation in that look. Once this is all sorted, of course. Will this job ever get any less complicated? No, of course it won't. He shakes his head.

"No, now that you mention it, you didn't." John pauses for a second, as if digging out a very old memory. "You just said something about Ianto not being twisted enough for the Time Agency. And about..."

"Enough!" He all but shouts into the room. Both Jacks and John stare at him for a second. "Answers. Short, concise, relevant answers." He stubbornly refuses to look away. "I have enough of a headache already to put up with this." The three of them smirk back at him. As if it were some private joke he's not getting. "So. When do you come from?" Jack-on-the-bed and John exchange a brief look.

"A few decades into your future." John shrugs. "Not too far away, just not next week." He glares. "Oh, sorry, Eye Candy, did you want specifics?" He wishes he had a taser with him – it's proven to do wonders for John's annoying behaviour. "September 2037. Specific enough for you?"

"Why come back?" Silence falls heavy. "Even _I_ know crossing your own timeline is not a good idea." There it is again, the smirks. "Weakens the fabric of time and space itself." Or something like that. "Why do it?"

Jack-on-the-bed shakes his head. John shrugs again.

"You know the kid, Jack. He's too good for his own good. He'll figure it out eventually." He nods. "And when he does, he'll have our heads if he thinks we got in the way." He raises an eyebrow. "You choose your lovers well, Jack. Loyal to you beyond belief." John takes a few steps forwards, standing between the two Jacks.

"So?" Hands on his hips, he holds John's gaze. Something tells him he's really not going to like the answer at all.

"Time is unravelling."


	7. Jack: future

When he hears John's words, he almost gives in to the sudden urge to get up from the bed and start a fight. So much for playing this one by the book, so much for not telling anybody from this point in time what is coming. So much for not changing the timeline so that they could keep the advantage of knowing what is going to happen. He should have known John would – eventually – play by his own rules, despite the many times John was the one reminding him this one had to be done by the book. John Hart's Book of Cons, maybe.

"What?" He had almost forgotten how often he – well, his past self – and Ianto would say the same thing at the same time. Owen used to find it very amusing and tease them about it. Ianto used to pretend it didn't bother him. But he knew it did, even though Ianto would never let it show. He has to admit, from the outside, it sort of _is_ amusing. A reminder of just how close they were, even if at times neither of them would want to admit it.

There is a moment of silent looks, of promised explanations and quiet agreements, before both Jack and Ianto turn towards him. He tries to ignore the pang of pain, the stream of memories of the many times he was part of such exchanges. Takes a deep breath – or tries to – despite the knot on his throat. Ianto gives him a curious look, that brain of his probably shifting through more information than is healthy for one head to hold, trying to find any nugget that may help explain what they are talking about. Jack is clenching his fists so tight the knuckles are turning white, and the smile on his face is more a tense fake grin than anything else.

"Is that true?" Jack stares at him, an he can't help but look away. The last thing he needs right now is for Jack to figure out all the things they are not telling him. And if he knows him old self, keeping things quiet won't be easy. He had forgotten just how annoying meeting himself could be. It's very hard to pull tricks on oneself. "Oh come on, you can't waltz in here, drop a bomb like that and then hide behind the rules." He shoots John a glare, but, as usual, it just seems to slide off him like water off a duck's back. "We've broken them often enough." Jack shoots John another glare, with about as much luck.

"Unravelling?" Ianto's quiet whisper feels like a shout in the tense atmosphere of the room. "Is it... as bad as it sounds?" There is a hint of hesitation in Ianto's voice, as if Ianto felt out of his depth. Not that he can blame him – even he feels a bit out of his depth with this. Ianto runs a hand through his hair, that nervous gesture he came to know so well. He finds it hard to resist the urge to cross the distance between them and wrap his arms around Ianto and _apologise_ for things that haven't happened yet. Even though Jack Harkness doesn't do apologies. The thought of making sure Ianto is far, far away from all the Very Bad Things about to kick off is tempting.

Yet he somehow manages to stay where he is, hands curled into fists so tightly he can feel nails digging into skin. Ianto would not appreciate being kept out of danger like that. It would probably backfire and Ianto would end up blaming himself for not being there – a feeling he doesn't wish on anybody – and blaming him for whatever happened to everybody else.

He pushes the thoughts away. He catches the questioning look between his other self and John, and shakes his head. Something tells him whatever he says, John will end up sharing much more than they should. Which will be less than Jack and Ianto need to know to survive this, but still too much. Damned if they do, damned if they don't. As usual.

"Worse." He almost smiles when the three of them answer Ianto's question at the same time. It'd seem some habits really do die hard. John _smirks_ in that way that says 'I told you so', even though he's not sure what it could be referring to right now _._ Ianto rolls his eyes, annoyance so obviously building up inside. Jack shakes his head. He almost feels the need to get out of the room. It takes a lot of effort to take his next breath.

"See, Eye Candy," John's voice is mellow and, if he didn't know better, he'd say it carries a hint of regret, "as Jack – one of them, at any rate – has no doubt already told you, Time is not a straight line, or a straight progression from cause to effect." Ianto nods, a calculating look on his face. "Effect sometimes precedes cause, and all those things."

"Actually, he pretty much said the opposite." Jack turns towards Ianto, questions showing on his face. "You did." Ianto shrugs. "When we where dealing with the time shift in St. Teilo's." Jack grimaces. He probably does as well, despite trying not to. So many things went wrong back then, even if they somehow managed to avoid yet another end of the world. The look of soul-destroying pain in Toshiko's eyes that day still haunts his dreams.

"That was linear time." Jack looks like he's struggling to find the words to explain this. Not that he can blame him – time mechanics is _not_ easy to discuss, not even using a language actually built to convey all its nuances. John snorts at the explanation and takes a seat beside him again, a hand on the small of his back, keeping him grounded. He struggles for air, as if his lungs didn't want to work. "John's talking Time. Which is more like..." Jack looks from him to John and back, as if asking for help. He racks his brains for a way to explain the Vortex, the complexities of Time and its strands and how everything connects to everything else, but comes up empty. "It's hard to explain."

"What Jack's trying to say, Eye Candy, is that time is much more than your linear perception of it." He doesn't even bother to remind John about the consequences of sharing knowledge about the nature of Time itself with those that still clung to erroneous concepts about it. "It's more like a... tangle of yarn. Spiderweb where everything is connected. Chaotic order. Ordered chaos." John lets out a frustrated sigh. "I'm sure you'd figure it out if you ever stepped into the Vortex." Ianto raises an eyebrow and slowly nods.

"So, if it unravels... It doesn't matter where... _when_ it starts, it will affect all of it." Ianto swallows. Wavers for a second as realisation hits. John shots him a 'told you he would figure it out' glare. "Time itself will stop existing?"

"And the whole Universe with it, theoretically." Jack stands up, arms crossed in front of him, and there is a moment of impasse, of Mexican standoff even without the guns. Seconds – heartbeats – tick away while they all try – and fail – to avoid inquisitive looks.

"Multiverse." Trust John to take every opportunity to correct him. The other Jack. Any version of him. He lets out a sigh. He had almost forgotten how annoying and confusing meeting another version of himself can be. Particularly when John is around.

"Multiverse." Jack gracefully agrees, taking a few steps towards John. "Not that it matters, it is all _theory_. Nothing was ever _proven_." John stands up, defiant, almost standing on tiptoe while pretending not to. Yet another of John's contradictions.

"We're past the theory point now, Jack."John opens his Vortex Manipulator and starts tapping on the keys, probably sending a stream of data to Jack's. "See for yourself, if you don't believe me." Jack mirrors John and his expression changes as he takes in the information they collected before jumping back. "I should fucking know!" John sounds bitter, almost disappointed, as if he had expected better of the Jack of this point in time. But he knows himself. He always thought he had the best cards in the game. Ianto raises an eyebrow, but doesn't ask.

"Enough!" Ianto doesn't raise his voice, but he doesn't need to. "Is it possible?" Ianto peeks over Jack shoulder to what would look like a sequence of incomprehensible figures to just about anybody in this century. "Could they be telling the truth?" John snorts and falls back on the bed, shaking his head, and this time it is his turn to place a calming hand on John's knee.

"Have I ever lied to you, Eye Candy?" Ianto snorts and almost breaks into a chuckle. "Okay, bad question."

"If your next one is 'would I lie about something so important?', save it, John." Despite the words, there is still a hint of banter in Jack's voice, and it hurts to think of everything that is about to hit this other version of himself, of everything that will be lost if they don't find a way around all the traps and the deception. "You have, actually. Several times."

"He's telling the truth." Three pairs of eyes turn towards him. "It almost killed him." John shoots him a death glare, but he doesn't care. John opened the can of worms – and should have expected certain things would eventually come out. "He'd be dead if we hadn't jumped back." He stands up and stares at his other self. It feels almost as if he were looking into a mirror – one that hides the worst of the weight on his shoulders. "I never meant for you to get involved. I thought we could..."

"You thought you could what, Jack?" His other self all but explodes. It would be easier if Jack actually _shouted_. But he's never been the shouting kind. "Walk into my back yard, get under my feet trying to fix goodness knows what behind my back, and leave without me noticing?" He swallows. Somehow answering 'yes' doesn't sound like a good idea. It's never good to underestimate oneself this badly.

"Actually, I don't think it was you who found us, was it, Jack?" John stands up again and walks towards them, close enough to separate them if needed, still leaving them space to sort it out themselves. "Something tells me it was Ianto who tracked us down. You only came along for the ride."

The door slamming shut almost makes him jump out of his skin. He looks around, perplexed, only to find Ianto missing. The three of them exchange a few puzzled looks. John shrugs and smirks, as if he found all of this – completely ignoring the plan, dragging Jack and Ianto into it, having the balance of the whole Universe on their shoulders – amusing.

"Where's he going now?" Jack walks to the door, opens it and calls after Ianto.

"I think he just got fed up with you two." John walks back to the bed and lies down, hands behind his head. "He'll be back. Give him two..."

John never gets to finish the sentence before Ianto walks back into the room, a look of determination on his face. He's seen it before, and even after all these years, it still makes him uncomfortable. Trust Ianto to be able to make him feel like a naughty schoolboy with just one single glare.

"Now, here's what we are going to do." Ianto stands on the doorway, hands on his hips. "You three are going to get down to the SUV, and I don't want to hear a word until we get back to the Hub. I'll call Gwen, make some decent coffee, and by the time we are all sitting in the Boardroom, I expect a clear, concise, sensible explanation of _exactly_ what is going on." A pause. "In words a five year old can comprehend, if possible."

Jack smiles and pats Ianto's back as he walks past him. John raises an eyebrow but quietly retrieves his sword and leaves the room after shrugging his jacket in place – John's discrete way of checking that all his weapons are in place. He grabs his coat with shaky hands and takes a few steps towards Ianto, so many things inside him pushing to come out that he can't find the words for any of them.

"Ianto..." Ianto doesn't answer. Just glares at him and points towards the door. He knows better than trying to talk right now. So he just nods, and walks past Ianto.

Somehow it feels like walking past a ghost.


	8. John

Sitting on the spiral staircase, he watches Jack – his Jack – trying to convince Gwen that yes, they really are who they say they are, and yes, danger is coming, and they should listen. Jack – his Jack – hasn't gotten to the 'I come from the future and know how things are gonna go down, doesn't that count for anything here?' moment yet, but he's getting close. Jack – the one from this time – is quietly watching, probably not wanting to get caught in the crossfire. He gave up some time ago, after Gwen not-so-politely reminded him that he left – never mind that he had no choice in the matter – and has no say in what Torchwood do or don't do – even if by 'now' he's been with Torchwood for longer than she's been alive – depending how he counts it.

So, he's just watching it from the sidelines. Much more fun.

Plus, a few steps down from where he is sitting, Ianto is making coffee. Jacket discarded, tie loosened up just a fraction, sleeves still buttoned but cuffs pulled back so they don't get in the way, and he can't help but thinking that those trousers fit Ianto much better than his other suits. By which he means, of course, that they hug his ass nicely. Gorgeous. The annoyance and anger that were so obviously seeping out of Ianto during their drive back from the hotel seem to have dissipated by now. Maybe making coffee really _is_ calming. He may have to try it one day.

To most people, Ianto always steps away from arguments and hides behind the coffee machine, to emerge only when the discussion has died down with mugs of steaming coffee for everybody. As far as he is concerned, Ianto – very intelligently – walks away from the playground fight that will get nowhere, waits for the kids to tire up, and then puts forward a drink and a possible solution. By that time, everybody is so exhausted with useless arguing that Ianto's proposal is generally taken as a starting point to solve whatever it is. Strangely, not even Jack seems to have noticed that.

A mug of coffee appears in front of him, and he takes it, eyes still fixed on the three figures across the Hub. Jack – his Jack – is leaning on the railings, coat discarded and hung neatly to his right. Jack – Ianto's Jack – is sitting on the tattered sofa under the Torchwood sign, looking from his other self to Gwen and back with an expression that pretty much says 'why am I siding with her against myself?'. PC Cooper, as usual during these proceedings, is on her feet, taking advantage of the extra three inches those heeled boots give her, arms crossed in front of her, stern – some would say stubborn – look on her face.

"So, who do you think will win, Eye Candy?" Ianto leans against the railings, his back to him, sipping his own coffee. "Although, two against one, it's barely fair." He's pretty sure Ianto will notice the tremor in his voice, despite his attempts to keep it steady. He's not entirely sure how he's managed – so far – to keep his distance, when all he wants to do is wrap his arms around Ianto and bury his head on the crook of his neck and just feel him, alive and probably complaining about being squeezed a bit too enthusiastically.

Well, that, and he wouldn't say no to a good round of life-affirming sex.

Or two. Just for good measure.

"You should be helping, then." He can tell Ianto is smiling. "Or maybe not. I don't particularly want to scrub blood off that floor again." There's a hint of painful memories there, and suddenly he remembers the aftermath of Gray's madness. Toshiko lying dead on the autopsy bay. The concrete steps covered in blood. "So. How's life in 2037? Still fighting aliens from a super-secret underground base that everybody seems to know about?"

He takes a deep breath. He knew Ianto would ask, would want to know. Who wouldn't, given half the chance, despite knowing the news may not be what they are expecting? Pulling a face, he finds himself struggling for an answer, cursing Ianto and the quiet way in which he demands truth even from him, so used to lying for a living.

"Yeah." He forces himself to smile, hoping Ianto will leave it at that, but knowing he most likely won't. When Ianto looks over his shoulder and gives him a small smile, a resigned look on his face, it takes every ounce of determination he's got to not run away.

He must be getting too old for this. Pretending, putting up a front, used to come as second nature. Used to be _easy_. It still is, but not with Ianto.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to ask." He raises his eyebrows, puzzled. "I don't want to know if I will still be alive by then. I don't want to know how I will live or when I will die." He lets out the breath he's been holding. "Working for Torchwood, you learn to take life one day at a time."

Stupid as it is, he can't help but think Ianto _knows_ what is coming. Well, maybe 'know' is not the word, more... Ianto has a hunch about what is coming. The idea of grabbing him and taking him away, away from the 456 and treacherous politicians and civil servants, away from death, crosses his mind again. He shakes his head, reminding himself again that Ianto would hate him for it.

Even if Torchwood managed without him.

Even if everybody lived.

"I wouldn't tell you if you asked." He smiles again, trying to hide every other emotion under a mask, as he's done all his life. Poker face, Ianto calls it. "Where would be the fun in life if you knew?"

Putting his mug down by the coffee machine, Ianto turns around, grabs the railings and stares at him, as if trying to take in every detail. A hand leaves the railings and runs through his hair; he can't help but close his eyes and shiver as those fingers travel down his face. The kid is too good not to notice.

"You haven't aged." There it is. Not even a question. "Almost thirty years into the future, and you haven't aged." He tenses, eyes still closed, leaning against the hand tracing patterns on his cheek. Will Ianto think he and Jack are lying? Or will he figure out what he's been doing? He swallows and forces himself to open his eyes, to look at Ianto and watch emotions and thoughts play on his face. "Are you... like Jack?"

He shakes his head. Much as he sometimes wishes he were, wishes he could stay with Jack, when thinking about it with a clear head, he's not sure he could handle immortality. He's always lived his life knowing that some day his number will be up and he'll die, and has never been afraid of it. But the thought of living for an eternity scares the Hell out of him. He has seen the toll it has taken on Jack - he would probably go mad. Ianto's other hand sneaks between the railings and grabs his wrist, fingers sliding over the leather of his Vortex Manipulator, and Ianto nods, as if everything were suddenly clear.

"It hasn't been thirty years for you, has it?" He pulls a face. Wants to look away and not give an answer, but he can't. Bites his lip. "You've been jumping in time." His heart misses a beat or two. "How long has it been for you?"

"Well, Eye Candy, that depends when you are counting from, and how you are counting." Full of his usual bravado and cocky attitude, but he knows Ianto can see right through that. Hell, the kid has probably put it all together in his head by now, and is just looking for confirmation.

"Since the day you disappeared from the Hub." Ianto's hand is still on his cheek, tracing bones and lines, going down to his neck before coming back up again. Almost uncertain of whether it is still welcome. He swallows. Resists the urge to drag Ianto to his bed. The bed they shared, just a few days ago – or a few decades, depending on perspective.

"Less than two years." Ianto nods again, and lets out a sigh. He brings a hand up and places it on top of Ianto's, leaning into the touch.

Part of him still wants to run away. Part of him knows he won't.

"Why?" In the background, both Jacks and Gwen are still arguing, voices a little louder, words a little harsher, but he couldn't care less. Both Jacks are immortal, neither of them will harm Gwen, and it won't be him scrubbing the blood of the floor if it gets to that, so nothing of consequence will happen. "Too used to non-linear time to stay in the slow path with the rest of us for long?" He pulls a face and tries to smile.

"Something like that." His voice breaks. Damn Ianto Jones and his way of getting the truth out of everybody around him. Damn Ianto Jones and his bloody brilliant brain and his ability to correlate every piece of information in his head and get a sensible conclusion out of it. Sometimes he has to wonder what exactly goes on in that head, how a simple human mind can put so much together.

"You are keeping Jack company." Barely a whisper, and this time he really wants to run before he says too much. "I've seen the way he looks at you. As if you were the only good thing left in his life." Ianto's voice is breaking now. He shakes his head, trying to throw Ianto off the scent. "I would know. He looks at me like that, sometimes." He wants to scream. Wants to tell Ianto it's not just sometimes that Jack thinks of him like that. "I die, don't I?" He's about to try a carefree 'we all die' when Ianto presses a finger to his lips. "I will die, soon, won't I? And Jack will lean on you." He doesn't move. He doesn't have a clue what he could say, even if he could get himself to say something. "So you keep jumping in time, trying to be with him for a bit longer."

An awkward silence settles between them. Ianto is still holding him, and he feels he is rooted on the spot, wanting to run away but not able to. Then Ianto pulls him towards the railings and kisses him, softly. It's almost delicate, almost as if Ianto thought he will push him away. He blinks, fighting the tears, because only Ianto, loyal Ianto, could put all of this together based on just a simple observation, while both Jacks – supposedly seasoned time travellers – have missed it completely.

"Thank you." Ianto pulls away, hand still on his neck, as if reluctant to let go. He nods, pursing his lips, hearing all the things Ianto wanted to say in those two words. He forces a smile. It's a strange thing, between him and Ianto. It always was, from the start. This just proves it, once again. Ianto looks over his shoulder, staring at Jack – his Jack, the one with the broken smile – for a moment. "He doesn't know, does he?" He shakes his head; Ianto snorts. "Sometimes Jack can be blind as a bat." He smiles, and this time he means it. "I won't tell yours, if you don't tell mine."

"Deal." They are good at this, keeping secrets. Pity they always seem to end up keeping them from Jack. Ianto straightens up, taking his hand away and dusting non-existent dust from his waistcoat. "Jack'll never believe you if you tell him, anyway." He has to snort at that.

"Now, let's go smack those three with some common sense, shall we?"


	9. Ianto

His head is spinning, for way too many reasons at the same time. John's back, and that only makes him even more aware of just how much he missed him these past few weeks. There's two Jacks in the room – and both of them are staring at him now, as he crosses the main area of the Hub towards them. That alone is enough to make him uncomfortable in his own skin, not to mention the headache it still gives him to try – and fail – to deal with such an obvious manifestation of time travel.

Some things are just easier to handle when they remain a theory.

One's own death is one of such things. He swallows hard, his tie suddenly too tight for comfort. He has always known he'll die young – there is no escaping that when working for Torchwood. Well, _known_ is not the word. Suspected. Expected. But a sliver of hope that somehow he might manage to survive this crazy life he's living must have remained somewhere, only to be confronted with John's revelations.

He swallows again, trying to push the thoughts away. When he looks up again, towards the two Jacks, the difference between them is so obvious it _hurts_. Jack has always been a broken man. Too many years, too many lost friends, colleagues, lovers, probably even family. Too many people he couldn't tell the truth to, about too many things. But there is still the twinkle of a smile in the eyes of his Jack. As if he not only accepted that life hurts, by its very nature, but actually embraced it, and expected it, and somehow that helped deal with it all.

But the other Jack... Guilt. Remorse. Too many regrets. He shakes his head. What could be about to happen that would break Jack so badly? Knowing that John is still around, thirty years into the future, barely feels like a small mercy. Although he has to admit he would love to be around when Jack finally realises what John is doing. Jumping in time. Trying to be there for as long as a brief human life will allow.

So much for the rogue who never cared about anybody but himself.

"Well, Jack, there has to be a reason why you came _here_." Gwen has been looking from one Jack to the other for the last twenty minutes, probably wondering whether she should believe her eyes, never mind the story they are telling her. " _Now_. Whatever term applies to this time travelling lark." He can't help the smile. Oblivious to everything as she may be at times, Gwen's instincts are sometimes bang on the money.

Both Jacks shuffle their feet, uncomfortable. Gwen's always been good at that, making Jack uncomfortable, in a good way. They look at each other, a silent 'it is your turn to explain' passing between them, and it is unnerving just how easy it is to read them – and probably how much the two Jacks are actually hiding from each other. He doesn't want to even start thinking about that.

"Boardroom, everybody." The three of them look at him. Gwen seems about to ask who on Earth put _him_ of all people in charge now, but seems to think better of it, and instead just nods and walks past him. Jack smirks in a way that makes him wonder, makes him wish the world could do without them, without Torchwood, for a few days. Because there is definitely a lot that that smile promises. Jack mark II – no, that doesn't work either, he'll have to think of something else – bites his lips nervously, as if too many words were fighting to come out at the same time. He lets out a sigh. Whatever it may be, however much this future Jack may need to get it off his chest, as usual, they just don't have the time right now. _Bloody Torchwood_. "Now."

Without a word, he turns around and heads for the boardroom. For once, John seems to be on his best behaviour and follows him, boots clattering loudly on the concrete floor. It's hard to believe John can be silent as a cat when he wants to. It's probably just another trick to catch everybody off guard.

"Anyone would think you've done this before, Eye Candy." He stops in his tracks and turns to face John. "Dealing with multiple instances of the same person." John takes a couple of steps towards him, which puts them too close for comfort right now. "It's not an easy thing to handle."

"That's... an understatement." John's lips curl in the beginning of a smile. A hand creeps up and rests lightly on his cheek, and he shivers from head to toe. Damn John Hart and the effect he has on him. Too many things he wants to say but it's neither the time nor the place.

But it may be now or never.

The thought hangs heavy on his mind. Just as it has so many times in the past. When Tommy died, leaving behind a broken-hearted Tosh. When Owen was shot, and the brief nature of life hit him square in the chest with the same intensity as if the bullet had hit him. When that warehouse collapsed on top of him, and for a second he was sure he wouldn't make it. When they lost Owen – again – and Tosh, and it made him regret all the things he never told them. All the times he wanted to reach out and let Owen know that he understood the pain hidden behind that mask of I-couldn't-care-less-about-you-all, because he'd been there. All the times he wanted to make Tosh smile, but let her go home, alone, thinking there would be other – better – moments for it.

All the times Jack died, and he was left wondering if this time it would be the last one.

"I..." It feels wrong to see John hesitate. John _never_ hesitates. Never has to find the words. "I never meant for you to find out." Barely a whisper. He nods, a silent acknowledgement of the apology John will never voice. "It may not have to happen." A finger runs down his neck, leaving a line of liquid heat behind it. "When Jack first called me after..." Tracing his ear. "I told him he was mad for wanting to change it." His jaw. He wants to move but can't. "Fixed point in time, just like Jack himself."

"What... has changed?" He's amazed he even manages the words. John smirks and leans in to leave the hint of a kiss on his lips.

"Time's fucked up anyway." He swallows. "If we do nothing, the whole multiverse will disappear, and there will be nothing left." John digs nails on the back of his neck and he hisses. If there ever was one day he wished Torchwood could wait, it has to be today. "It's not like we can cause anything _worse_ than that by trying to... nudge things in the right direction." There it is, John's smile. The one that says 'this is way too dangerous but the rewards are too good to _not_ try'. He nods, not sure he can really get a grip of what exactly 'the multiverse disappearing' means. "Trust me, Ianto, I'm not going to let it happen just like it will."

He blinks, the misconstructed grammar somehow making sense in his head. There's something in John's voice that makes it sounds like a promise. The kind that John will stick by, even if it costs him dearly.

"Just make sure Jack doesn't end up mourning you." He aims for carefree and misses by a mile or three. John snort-giggles – he really has to find a word for that – and he gets the feeling there is a lot that has gone unsaid but doesn't really need saying anyway.

"There's still someone else we need to invite to this party." John's so close to him now, barely a hairsbreadth away, that the heat is unbearable. "And neither Jack is going to be happy about it."

"Who?" Fingers tug at his shirt, undoing a couple of buttons. His hands find their way under John's jacket, which seems to have an odd weight about it, different from last time. Probably new weapons secreted all over it. He pulls at the t-shirt just enough to find some skin, and tells his brain to shut up about end-of-the-world situations and Jack about to come down this corridor and maybe even Gwen possibly doubling back if nobody shows up soon.

"Myself." A tug at his tie, and he bites his lips to bite back the moan building at the back of his throat. It takes a moment for the word to register and give him a headache. "Well, to be precise, my self – and that's two words – that was taken from about three corridors down from here about... a month ago for you?"

"Why?" A bite on his neck, just _there_ , and he could swear that John is a mind reader sometimes.

"Call it a mission of mercy." John's voice almost breaks. Then there's a kiss, soft and so unlike John it makes him wonder just how much everything that will – or may – happen has affected not only Jack but also John. "Besides, we need all the help we can get." He nods. "Just back me up." He nods again.

"John, how many times do I have to tell you, stop harassing my employees?" Jack's voice booms at the other end of the corridor. Steps clatter. Mercifully, John takes a step back, but doesn't even bother to rearrange his clothes. He swallows and tries to compose himself again. "At least not when I'm not around!" Trust Jack to come up with something like that at a moment like this.

"Well, Jack, if you hadn't loitered behind when I told you two to get moving, maybe you would have been around." John laughs. Jack smirks. Even Jack point two – no, that one doesn't work either - gives a small smile. "Now, boardroom. Everybody."

There is a moment of tense silence while they all find a chair and sit down. The room still feels too big, even though there's five of them. Maybe he just misses Tosh and Owen more than he'd like to admit. John's leaning back on his chair, across the table from him, arms stretched over his head and giving the world his most innocent smile. The one nobody believes anymore. Both Jacks are sitting together, which only intensifies the headache he gets every time he remembers there are two of them.

"So." Gwen takes the lead. "You claim to come from the future." She's staring at one of the Jacks sitting across from her. The wrong one, for that matter.

"Not him, Gwen." John points towards the other Jack. "He does." Gwen lets out a frustrated sigh, and for a moment looks ready to give up. She's been doing that a lot lately. Almost as if she were looking for a good reason to tear herself away from Torchwood. Yet she keeps coming back, never really taking the chance to leave. He has to remind himself he's not the only one to feel the losses.

"And I can tell you, he doesn't _claim_." Jack jumps in, a smirk on his face. "I can tell myself from an impostor."

"I'm going to have to label you two so you stop confusing me." He rolls his eyes at Gwen. She completely ignores him. "How can you tell them apart?"

"Easy." He finds himself echoing John's reply. Jack lets out a chuckle, as if he found the synchronicity amusing. Even future Jack – he may stick to that for now – gives a bit of a smile.

"There are subtle differences, PC Cooper." John leans forward, resting his elbows on the table and tapping his fingertips together, and _smiles_ in that predatory way that makes one feel like the rabbit in front of the lion, just before dinnertime. "Although, of course, they may only be obvious to those of us that have fucked the man." Gwen blushes, but refuses to look away. "Which we all know you haven't, despite how much you wish you had."

"I most certainly don't!" He rolls his eyes, not even wanting to consider the hint of jealousy in Gwen's voice.

"Enough!" It feels he has spent the last few hours shouting the word to everybody around him but _someone_ has to keep them focused. "Now, one of you two time travellers will tell us exactly what is going on. Everything we need to know. Why you are here... now." John nods approvingly. "What is about to happen that will damage Time so badly." Both Jacks and John cringe. "And, more importantly, what we can do to prevent it."

"Now, that's a long story, Eye Candy." John gives him a wicked smile, takes something out of his pocket and places it on the table. "That's why I brought this."


	10. Jack: present

If there ever was a good moment to kick John out of the planet – and of the Solar System if possible – it would be right _now_. Because John knows full well just how _dangerous_ those things can be, and still has chosen to bring one into Torchwood. But, of course, before he knows it, Jack looks at him and shakes his head, a silent plea in those sad eyes, and he can't help thinking that whatever is coming has to be really, _really_ bad. And tough problems sometimes require tough solutions.

He really had completely forgotten just how much of a pain in the backside meeting himself can be.

"What is it?" Ianto sounds cautious; trust the keeper of the largest collection of alien technology on Earth to recognise an alien artefact, and to keep his distance until said artefact is identified, catalogued, and deemed safe. And probably even after that.

"This, Eye Candy," John leans forward a bit more, hands playing aimlessly with the device, "is a memory cube." John balances it on one of the vertices, spinning it carefully. "Telling you all the story would take a bit too long. And Jack here would take even longer to believe everything we have to tell, even if it is his own self telling the tales."

"How does this help?" Gwen stretches a hand towards the cube – John smacks it, and she retreats. For once, she seems to be so genuinely surprised about everything that is happening that no witty reply comes. Not that he can blame her. Time travelling is not for the faint hearted, and some aspects of it do take a while getting used to. Even when one has seen them before.

"This will, simply put, bring all of you into events we have experienced." He pulls a face, wondering if John is planning on even _hinting_ at all the things that can go wrong, all the dangers that come with memory cubes. There are reasons why the Agency stopped using them. There are reasons why almost _everybody_ stopped using them. There are reasons why they became a _drug_ , sold in the underworlds of just about every respectable planet.

The whole conversation John and Ianto have in a single glance doesn't help convince him John knows what he's doing, either.

"A ghost machine." John gives Gwen a blank look. "We found this device, a few years back." Ianto grimaces. "Replayed events that had imprinted themselves on a place." John raises an eyebrow, considers, and shakes his head. "Quantum... some thing or other."

"Transducer," his other self contributes. Gwen clicks her fingers and nods, muttering something under her breath about all the technobabble she's had to learn since she joined Torchwood.

"Same principle, but not quite." John pushes the cube a bit further in the table. "Now, if you could all make sure to keep an eye on the cube, Jack will proceed to tell..."

"Not so fast." John gives him an annoyed look. Jack lets out a sigh. Gwen and Ianto stare at him, full of curiosity. "You know what happens with these things. Going _in_ is easy. Coming _out_ , not so much."

"Well, what do you suggest? The three of you need this information. Either Jack or I have to be there to trigger the events. And something tells me you wont' trust either of us to stay out here to make sure the rest of you come out safe and sound, brain more or less intact."

He shakes his head. Ianto's lips curl in the beginning of a smile, as if things had suddenly clicked in that head of his, and he can't help thinking he's entirely missing something. Something big and obvious. Something he should have noticed.

"Maybe we could dispense with the technology and just go old school on this one." Ianto's quiet words break the silence and the tension. John smiles that predatory smile of his, and something inside him grumbles once again about having to be Captain Harkness and save the world – yet again – when all he wants is a moment of peace. "You know, give us the abridged version of relevant events."

"Hard to believe as it may be, Eye Candy, that's exactly what we tried to do, back in the hotel room." John glares at him, and he can feel the edge of the table digging into the palm of his hands as he struggles to keep calm. "But His Immortalness over there didn't seem too inclined to believe a word we were saying, but rather too convinced that we where hiding some _vital_ piece of information."

"I wonder why that may be." He shakes his head towards Gwen, and she leans back on her chair, arms crossed in front of her and a frown forming. John gives her a mock-bow, and Ianto rolls his eyes. Yes, John may be a pathological liar, but there's always the chance he might be telling the truth. Or at least, part of it. Unfortunately, it's quite hard to tell, when it comes to John.

Something tells him getting to the bottom of this is going to take a lot more than patience. For starters, he would need way much more patience than almost two thousand years buried under Cardiff could ever teach him. Which is saying something.

He's about to snap, to _demand_ a proper explanation of what Jack and John are doing here, of what is coming, of _everything_ , even though he knows how unlikely it is that it'll get him anything, when Ianto's hand settles lightly on his arm. Ianto gives him a sideways look, the hint of a smile still on his lips, and shakes his head.

It takes a moment before he can nod back, thoughts still spinning wildly in his head. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm down. He's been on edge ever since Ianto spotted the Vortex Manipulator signatures, and a memory cube in the room is definitely not helping. He _knows_ he's playing right into John's plan, whatever that may be, but the idea that Time may really be unravelling is terrifying enough for him to _need_ to know _everything_.

"We're wasting time." Jack breaks the silence, and he recognises the emotions behind the words. The loss, the defeat, the uncertainty. He's been there before, more times than he can remember, but it sounds worse than ever before. He swallows, wondering just what may be the price of restoring Time, of preventing the unseen disasters that threaten the world. Wondering what will be the price of ignoring the warnings and letting it happen.

Deep inside, he knows he doesn't want to know. But he also knows he can't afford not to.

"Start talking." John opens his mouth, but he raises a hand before a word comes out. "Not you." He turns to face Jack. "You." John snorts.

"Oh, come on, Jack, anybody would think you don't trust me." He raises an eyebrow and stares at his other self, and there's something strange in the half-smile they share.

"I do." He puts a hand over Ianto's, still on his arm, and tries to ignore the pain that Jack fails to hide. "But you're too good a liar." This time it is snorts all around the table, Gwen almost choking on her coffee, Ianto trying his best not to let it show. It takes one to know one. "Lying to oneself is more complicated." John rolls his eyes in a way that, once again, reminds him too much of Ianto. "Although I'm sure you have perfected the art by now."

"Of course, Jack." John stretches his hands above his head, the cube vanishing somewhere in the process, and leans back on his chair. "Maybe all those people out there keep pretending because lying to oneself is..." The look Ianto shoots John to shut him up doesn't go unnoticed. He lets out a sigh and turns his attention to Jack again.

"Time is unravelling." Jack nods and looks away in a gesture so familiar it is disconcerting. "That's all you've given us so far." Gwen's phone goes off, and she rushes out of the room, an apologetic look on her face, boots clattering on the concrete floor. He glances at his watch. It's probably Rhys, wondering what dragged his wife out of bed so early in the morning. "When will it start? What triggers it?"

Jack leans forward, elbows on the table. He can't help but wonder if he gives the rest of the world the same paternalistic, condescending look his other self is giving him right now. It would explain a lot. Like why Owen always used to huff and puff and put on the best 'Doctor Harper doesn't care' attitude every time he tried to bring the team up to speed on some gizmo or another.

"It has already started." He nods, slowly, mind racing through the possibilities. Already? It can't have. The sensors would have picked up something. The Rift, as a huge distortion in time and space, would echo the effects of anything happening to time ten times louder than any other point in the continuum. "The Garg'kats arriving a few weeks ago was an echo." Of course. Time being weakened, cracks and fissures allowing easy passage.

He pushes away the scary thought that maybe the sensors didn't pick anything because the Rift _being_ where and when it is is part of it all, a ripple wave of whatever is causing Time to unravel that they've lived with for so long it has become _normal_. That is something he'd rather not consider right now.

"And the time bubbles?" Trust Ianto to always have a good question up his sleeve. "Were they related as well?" John was right when he said that Ianto had a mind for time travel – even if the Time Agency would never had taken him in. Morals and ethics do sometimes get in the way of doing what needs to be done. As he well knows. And even Ianto's betrayal when trying to save Lisa was born out of duty and a certain code of honour. No, the Time Agency would never had come anywhere near Ianto Jones.

"In a manner of speaking." He shakes the thoughts away when John jumps in. "Those were actually a... let's call it unexpected side effect of all the hoops we had to jump through to get here." Ianto gives John an inquisitive, calculating look.

"I thought you said they were..." Ianto pauses for a second, tongue peeking out in between his lips, eyes closed, concentrating. "Of course. The only way to travel to times when one shouldn't be." John nods. Gwen walks back into the room and leans on the wall by the door, arms folded in front of her. He can tell something is bothering her, but, whatever it is, it'll have to wait. "I'm guessing Time unravelling can interfere with normal time travel."

"We had to be... quite imaginative and improvise more than is sensible." Jack nods at John's explanation, but still manages to shoot a warning look. "The Garg'kats found an easy way into this time, but we couldn't get anywhere near now." A pause. A silent conversation between Jack and John that somehow hurts, as if those two had been together for way longer than he expected. "For a long time, I actually thought the twenty-first century was time locked. Apparently, it was just mayhem starting to show."

"Any idea what caused it?" Everybody turns towards Gwen, and she almost blushes as she pushes herself off the wall. "The whole time unravelling thing. I keep thinking of it as a big woollen jumper or laddered tights – they won't unravel unless a thread breaks somewhere." Good analogy – according to theory, anyway. "Though I guess it's not going to be as simple as catching it early and putting some clear nail polish on it."

"Well..." John hesitates, eyes on Jack. It's never good when John, who never manages to keep quiet, is not sure whether to speak or not. There's a moment of tense silence, and he has to admire the way Gwen sometimes seems to get to the core of the problem so easily.

"We've managed to narrow it down to a single event." There's a huge dose of reticence when Jack finally speaks again. As if he couldn't believe he's actually telling them about this. As if he were expecting everything to worsen with every word he says. Which, in all fairness, could happen, despite the mess they are already in. At least in theory. "The Rift will be blown up."

" _What_?" Ianto's fingers dig into his arm, and the jolt of almost-pain grounds him. He takes a deep breath. "How?" There's no way anybody would be mad enough to... But of course, not everybody knows the potentially lethal consequences of making something explode on a fracture in time and space. Or that there is one of them in Cardiff, for that matter. Coincidentally, most of those who _know_ about it would be the kind of people to actually _want_ to blow it up for their own reasons. "When?"

"Might want to give them the who and why as well, while you're at it, Jack." Jack shoots John a death threat condensed in a glare that would make even Ianto proud.

"In less than a week." Jack looks away, as if he really didn't want to explain this. "Here." Jack swallows. He tenses. Something tells him he really doesn't want to hear this. "And I'm afraid it will be I who causes it. Or rather you, Jack."


	11. Jack: future

The words taste bitter in his mouth. The last thing he wanted to do when they jumped back was to burden this Jack with the knowledge of what is to come. He knew if Jack found out they were here it would be _very_ hard to keep anything from him. Much as he understands the need to know every little detail that may help fix this, there are certain things that Jack must not be allowed to find out.

He'll have to remind John about that, and make sure that there are no more risky bets. Not even _he_ could be sure that his earlier self wouldn't want to take his chances with a memory cube and its side effects and the ever-hanging possibility that they may never make it out of it. Not even _he_ could know Ianto would jump in right in time. Unless, of course, Ianto and John had arranged something beforehand. Knowing John, it wouldn't surprise him in the slightest.

Still, it could have backfired nastily, and not only Jack but also Ianto and Gwen would have found out exactly how bad things are about to get, if they don't stop them. It's not just a matter of how much that could damage the timelines – because, even though John seems to conveniently forget that, things _can_ get much worse than they already are if the timelines snap at any other point. It's how – or rather whether – they could handle knowing what is to come. Even when the future is not as grim as what is on the cards for Torchwood right now, it's not easy.

He shakes his head, dragging his thoughts back to the present. Jack is still staring silently at him. At the other end of the room, Gwen is defending Jack's innocence, claiming that he'd never knowingly do anything to harm Torchwood, or Cardiff, and that it would be madness for him to cause any kind of explosion near the Rift. He can't help the bitter almost-laugh. Gwen did never – will never – learn that it's not the things one intends to do, but the ones that one does without intending to, that often wreck havoc.

"We have enough past to haunt us for the rest of our lives." He stares at Jack, hoping he'll choose not to ask. At least not right now; past and enemies and things that can come back to bite are often better kept to oneself, even if time travel makes even that a bit more complex than usual. Jack gives an almost imperceptible nod, and he tries not to notice Ianto's hand still on Jack's arm, and Jack's hand on it, fingers barely moving, and Ianto oh so alive and maybe not for long, and Jack too worried about the world, and Torchwood, and all those things Jack – he – has been clinging to for too long to even consider that there may be better things to do right now than chasing unravelling fragments of Time.

"Old enemies coming back." Jack raises an eyebrow. "That doesn't particularly narrow it down, you know?" Oh, yeah, he does know. And the list is only going to get longer in the next few decades. "Just from my days in the Agency, that could be almost half the galaxy. And I've had plenty of time since then to make more. Some of whom happen to be in high places when they are at home."

"You know what they say." Jack give him an inquisitive look. "Keep your enemies close, and your friends closer." A pause. "People will turn on you, Jack, when you least expect it." He raises a hand, placating protests from Gwen before she gets a chance to barge in. "Nobody in this room, that much I can tell you." Jack nods again, a sigh of relief escaping him. "But there are others who'll hunt you – all of you – down for their own reasons." John shoots him an offended glare that almost shouts 'so much for not telling them anything', and he has to remind himself it's a very fine line he's toeing at the moment. One false step, one word too many, and things will get worse. "And you won't see it until it's too late. Because you won't be expecting it."

Jack leans back on his chair, hands on his knees, and stares in the distance. Thinking, no doubt. Considering the possibilities, the alternatives, the options. Ianto stands up and starts pacing the room; long, measured steps one could time an orchestra to. He can't help but smile a little – some people seem to be naturally tuned to Time, and it shows in small details like that. Small details that one can easily miss. Like John's annoying ability to tell the time, or how long it's been since something happened, or Ianto's impeccable timing and the fact he can tell when a clock runs fast without checking it against another one.

Gwen slides into a chair, as far away from both John and him as she can sit. Obviously she still isn't comfortable with such a blatant manifestation of time travelling, and it's not like he can blame her. Unlike John, who seems to enjoy meeting himself more than is healthy, he's never been too keen on it – it always meant trouble of the worse kind. And it does his head in, all this staring at his own reflection that isn't really a reflection and only reminds him of everything he lost so long ago.

"Who?" When Jack asks, the question is barely a whisper. He swallows. "I _need_ to know, Jack." He feels tempted to explain that sometimes ignorance is bliss, but he's never been very good at believing it himself. It'd be stupid to expect his past self to handle it any better.

"I've already told you too much." Any seasoned time traveller would have his head for saying much less than he has. Much as he'd like to _help_ , to give Jack everything he needs, he _can't_. "For all I know, we may have changed the timeline already." Jack nods, and he can almost hear the possibilities spinning in Jack's thoughts.

"Which means you may already have lost the advantage, so you can't expect things to play out the way they originally will." Gwen hides her face behind her hands at the horrendous use of grammar to accommodate for time travelling. "Which means you are already flying blind, so you may as well tell me."

"You _really_ don't want to know." That's the other side of it. Even if he could tell, would he be able to burden Jack with the knowledge of what is on the cards?

"I'll be the judge of that."

They stare at each other, and for a moment the room disappears from focus. _Literally_. Even he can recognise the signs of Time about to bend beyond the point where the Universe can correct and recover.

"What the Hell was _that_?" They all turn towards Ianto, who's clinging onto the back of a chair as a drowning man clings to a floating raft, catching his breath and blinking furiously.

"That, Eye Candy, was the cue for His Immortalness – your version thereof – to stop asking questions that will only cause more damage to the timelines." Despite his efforts, John sounds worried, and he can't blame him. John suspected Ianto is time sensitive from the start, but there was never any clear-cut evidence. And, if Ianto is feeling the distortions in Time, it can only be getting worse. "Else I will have to bring out the toys and make sure nobody causes the timelines to snap by saying a word more about what may or may not happen." Ianto nods, slowly pushing himself away from the chair and regaining his balance.

"Sounds like you have some vested interest in making sure we all make it out of this one alive, Captain." The banter in Ianto's voice almost hurts. The way John looks back at Ianto doesn't help either. Part of him feels the urge to take them all away, where what is coming – may be coming – won't touch them, but he knows they would never forgive him for it. So he just takes a deep breath, and puts on the poker face. And gives John something to keep him busy for a while.

"He almost had his head frozen so we could get into the fine details in his memory and find out how and when all this mess started." John snaps around to look at him and shoots him a death glare. He gives his most innocent smile, as if he didn't know John will spend the next few days denying it – and plotting revenge. "Can't have him go to all that trouble and then mess it up once we're here, can we?"

"Hang on a second." Gwen jumps in, probably trying to stop the argument before it starts again. "I thought you said the timelines had already snapped." John smiles, but his expression is all tension and almost screams 'there is always someone who does not get it'. "Are you telling me it can get worse than it already is?"

"I think you gave the answer to that earlier." Ianto's voice is still a bit shaky. "Laddered tights can still ladder elsewhere." Gwen nods, a calculating look on her face.

"So. Time is unravelling, and it starts when the Rift if blown up. By Jack. I'm assuming you didn't... will not... whatever tense is appropriate... intentionally do it." He shakes his head. "Season with old enemies, sprinkle a few unexpected turncoats, add a couple of people who know what's going on but can't tell us, and that's it?" John nods, still looking too pensive. "Sounds like the usual Torchwood. On a larger scale, maybe."

He can't help the smile. Sometimes Gwen has a way of reminding him that no problem is too big to tackle, if only one looks at it in the right way.

"And with more fire power." Trust John to always be the one thinking of weapons. "Much more fire power than Torchwood could ever imagine to have." A pause, an arched eyebrow, a calculating look. "Unless, of course, you lot have a defence satellite I know nothing about?" Ianto snorts in a way that sounds a lot like 'I wish!'. "Well, then we'll have to go old school."

"What's the plan then?" Gwen plants her elbows on the table, eyes darting around the room. "How do we stop it from happening?" She pauses for a second, and he can almost hear the cogs turning in her head. " _When_ exactly is it supposed to happen, anyway?" John looks at him and grimaces. They stare at each other, not wanting to be the one breaking the news. It's almost scary how it's always the little details that make things so terrifyingly real. "Less than a week can be tomorrow, can be next week."

"In the original timeline, in about... three days." It's eventually John who breaks the silence. Ianto raises an eyebrow and sits next to John, hands clasped together in front of him, and memories of other times in the boardroom come rushing in. It takes a lot of effort to block them. "Given that what will trigger it..." A pause. "Let's just say that what will trigger it is one of the things that shouldn't change, whatever we tell you."

He nods, reluctantly acknowledging what John is not saying. That regardless what they do, the 456 will still come, will still threaten the planet, and will still set in motion a set of events that will be very hard to counteract. That the danger this time is far too great for just them.

"And I'm guessing it won't be as easy as keeping Jack safe and away from the world until then." Not even a question, just one of those deadpan statements of Ianto's he's missed so much. John snorts, and for a split second it almost feels possible. Stopping the invasion. Saving Ianto. Saving Torchwood. Surviving. Then reality sinks in. It never pays to count the chickens before they hatch.

"Probably not." John stands up, arms stretched above his head, and shakes his shoulder, shuffling the jacket back into place. "But it's a good starting point." He gives Jack a sideways look, only to find his other self looking back at him.

"No way!" Jack snaps, voice booming in the room. He can't help but thinking that meeting oneself is a good way of realising why other people find certain things – habits, tones, expressions – annoying. Because Jack's – his – 'know better than everybody else' attitude can get on his nerves at times. "I'm not going to be cooped up in my own home just because you two think I'll be blowing up the Hub." John rolls his eyes in a damn good imitation of Ianto.

"Jack, it may be worth..." Gwen never gets to finish whatever she was trying to say. Jack shoots her a glare that clearly says 'shut up', and, for once, she goes with it. "Well, I just thought maybe..." Sort of. Never let it be said that Gwen didn't try.

"Well, Jack, if you _really_ want a painful death so badly, I'm sure I can find something you'd enjoy that wouldn't involve blowing up the fucking Rift and destroying Time in the process." John's voice is cold, measured and calm – that's John at his most dangerous. "Cos, you know, the rest of us kinda want to still be around in a few decades."

Silence, once again. Tense and full of unvoiced threats and quiet reassurances that somehow, even if nobody knows exactly how, they may just make it. Ianto swallows and nods to himself, as if convincing himself to do what he's planning.

"You can never be too cautious." He almost smiles. Trust Ianto to turn his own words against him – or at least against his past self. "That's what you always say, Jack." Jack growls and catches himself just as he's about to punch the table. "This threat, this... explosive." The words seem to get stuck in Ianto's throat. "It originates outside of Torchwood, does it not?" John nods. "And Jack unknowingly brings it in." John nods again, eyebrows knitted into a frown.

"We can handle the field, Jack." Gwen joins in, never one to lose a discussion. "John, Ianto and I. That's three of us. Just like usual." There's a shadow of pain in Gwen's expression that reminds him – again – he's not the only one to feel losses, to carry scars. He's just had more time than the others to collect them. "You two can stay here, and make sure you don't get a chance to bring whatever it is anywhere near the Rift."

"Sounds like a plan to me." John's grin is only skin deep, and he can't blame him. The longer they are here, the more this feels like a last ditch attempt to fix an unsolvable problem.

Talk about mood swings.


	12. Jack: present

He's not hiding in his office. He most definitely is _not_. The fact that he walked out of the boardroom and straight into his office, closing the door behind him, has nothing to do with hiding, and a lot to do with needing time to process everything that has happened in the last few hours.

John is always an unknown when he shows up. Even after the last visit, and the fact that John seemed to be nesting and really wanting to stay, there's always the moment of doubt – about whether this is John before or after the last time, about whether John will be friend, foe or both this time. As for meeting himself... he's never been keen on it, not even back in his day in the Agency when sometimes the mission required two of him to be present. It is always messy, it is always confusing, and he usually ends up finding out things he never wanted to know about what is to come, or remembering parts of his past that are best left forgotten.

Both of them showing up at the same time could never be a good sign, but it just seems everything went downhill from the moment they arrived. The idea of time unravelling is unnerving enough on its own. The thought that _he_ may be the cause of it, that _he_ may blow up the Rift, and possibly the Hub with it, is simply... terrifying. Torchwood, despite all the pain and bad moments, is his family, has been for a long time. This – the Hub, the Rift, the madness that is life in Torchwood – is his home.

And, according to John, he is about to be the one to blow it all to Hell and back.

"Sometimes you think too much." The words startle him, and he almost jumps out of his chair, hand reaching for the Webley that isn't at his hip. It takes him a moment for his brain to register who it is. "It'll be the death of you, someday." He snorts. It's somehow comforting, the way Ianto throws his own words back at him with such ease. Reassuring, like the many noises of the Hub in the middle of the night, or the views from atop the roofs of Cardiff. Soft steps echo on the concrete as Ianto comes up the stairs and into view, and perches on the corner of his desk. Just like so many times before.

"In case you've forgotten, Mr. Jones, I can't die." He sounds bitter, and he can't help it. However advantageous in his line of work it may be, immortality is a curse. Whatever he does, whatever he messes up, whatever he misses, whatever risks he takes, he won't pay the consequences – those around him will. That is something he still struggles to live with, even after all these decades. Centuries. Ianto doesn't reply, just gives him a sideways look that says way too much. Silence – as close to silence as the Hub ever gets, that is – falls on the room again, but it no longer feels oppressive and threatening.

"Do you trust them?" When it comes, the question is barely a whisper. He looks away, considering. Does he? Can he? "Could they be telling the truth?" He pulls a face. Well, that much, they probably are.

"I dare say they are." Ianto almost-pouts in that oh so sexy way that should have nothing to do with worrying threats and a lot to do with fun times. "You felt the distortion as much as I did. That, as far as I know, not even John Hart can fake." Ianto nods, eyebrows knitting together in a thoughtful frown.

"Jack seems worried." He leans forward, the edge of the desk digging almost painfully at his elbows. Yes, his other self looks like a man who not only carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, but has lost way more than any man can handle. "More than you do, anyway." He tries to force a smile, to pretend it's not as bad as it may look, but Ianto is way too clever – and knows him too well – to fall for something like that. So he just stares into the empty space in front of him.

"He's got reasons to be. Timelines are not supposed to snap." He lets out a sigh, not entirely sure how to explain the subtleties of Time. "The Universe is supposed to correct itself when things change." Ianto nods absent-mindedly. "Theory says... or rather, said... things will never change beyond the point where the Universe can correct them."

"Because if they did, and the Universe couldn't correct the damage, then it wouldn't be stable." Ianto places a hand on his shoulder, solid and reassuring , and the touch brings the promise of life itself. "But apparently that is not the case." Ianto pauses for a second, one finger idly tracing circles on his neck. He shakes his head, and Ianto sneaks a finger under the collar of his shirt. "So, how do we handle this?"

"Good question." He leans into the touch, almost wishing Torchwood could, just once, not be so demanding. But if there is one thing he has learnt in all his years is to be careful what he wishes – just in case it comes true. "John made it clear he won't be saying another word. Jack will probably keep quiet as well. And I can't say I blame either of them."

"John mentioned..." Ianto stops in mid-sentence, shaking his head, as if he weren't sure how to tackle this. "It sounds mad, but John mentioned we need more help."

"Don't we always." If this is another of Ianto's brilliant plans to remind him they need to hire some more people, it's not going to work. He can't get himself to drag anybody else into the mayhem and chaos and destruction that life in Torchwood always ends up being. Not right now, anyway. Maybe in a decade or two, when he can look at himself in the mirror again. "What's his brilliant idea? UNIT won't show up without concrete evidence of a threat. You would expect people who have worked with the Doctor pretty much since they were set up would have learnt a thing or two about time travelling and using it to their advantage." Ianto smiles. Something tells him he's playing straight into someone's plan. "Whitehall pretty much pretend we don't exist unless they need something. That leaves us with... what exactly?"

"John." He's about to open his mouth to reply when it clicks. John. Not _this_ John but _another_ John. He raises an eyebrow. Ianto holds his gaze, unblinking. "The one that just disappeared from here." Somehow, this does not sound like a good plan. "Apparently, his past self would love to come and help." He snorts.

"More likely John got himself into a tight spot when he disappeared from here, and just wants to get himself out of it now." Trust John to get himself in trouble wherever it is he ended up.

"I don't think so." He gives Ianto an inquisitive look and waits for the explanation. "If it were just a matter of that, I think he would have done it already. As he says, the timelines are already changing – as long as he makes sure they don't snap anywhere... anywhen else, he should be okay." He has to smile at Ianto's misuse of the English language in order to make temporal sense. Not easy, even when using a language _designed_ for time travel. "I'm not sure what it is, but I think he may have a good reason to want his other self here. Now."

"Are you sure he's not just looking for a bit of fun?" Ianto's smile widens as he shakes his head.

"Jack doesn't agree with him." Now there's a surprise. John has always been way too happy about meeting himself. It used to take some convincing to rein him in. Not that it ever really worked, but at least it meant that the 'reunion party' was held behind his back, so he didn't have to keep track of which John was which. "There is apparently a part of the timeline that needs preserving."

"So John wants us to convince Jack that yet another dose of John Hart is just what we need to get through this." Of course. John has a knack for getting others to do his dirty work. At least the part of it he doesn't enjoy doing himself.

"Quite likely." Ianto nods. "Are we going to?"

"Maybe." He shrugs. "Not without knowing more about it, anyway." He learnt his lesson a long time ago, when it comes to letting John get him into anything.

Well. Mostly.

Well. Sort of. Sometimes.

"So." Ianto takes his hand away and extends a finger, as if keeping count. "The people that know what's coming can't tell us." Apparently so. "The people that could help us won't, because we can't prove something is going to go down." He nods. "And we're understaffed, and even Gwen has holiday entitlement left from previous years." He snorts and stares at Ianto for a second, then carefully places a hand on his thigh. "Well, we will have to figure everything out on our own then." Ianto stands up, pats his shoulder and takes a couple of steps towards the stairs before turning around again. "Will it damage the timelines if we figure it out without them?"

"Search me." He shrugs. "I'm still trying to digest the fact that timelines _can_ actually snap."

"I'd better go ask the experts then, while you finish your admin." He nods and turns back to the paperwork on his desk, the minutiae of administrative tasks that need to be done to keep Torchwood running, even after the fall of Torchwood London and the considerable streamlining of process and form that came with it.

The hand on his shoulder comes as a surprise. So do the fingers under his chin, and the barely-there brush of lips Ianto gives him before finally taking the stairs and disappearing from view.

Some days only get worse after they start.

Others do sometimes get a little bit better.


	13. Ianto

Finding Jack – future Jack, that is – is easy. He's still sitting in the boardroom, a mug of by now cold coffee in front of him, and looking as if he couldn't believe what's going on. Well, about that, they are on the same boat. Time travelling went from a possibility to a reality when he started researching the blue box that appeared on CCTV after Jack disappeared. But that was still a theoretical reality. This... Well, this just sits up there in the weird-things-that-happen-at-work-meter.

He puts a fresh mug of coffee in front of Jack, moves a chair out of the way and perches on the table, barely a few inches away. It feels awkwardly familiar, in a way that reminds him of the first few weeks after Jack returned. The time they spent walking on eggshells around each other because they didn't quite know how to handle what was going on. Jack's hands leave the cold mug and wrap around the new one.

"I'm not going to ask." Jack doesn't look up, just nods absent-mindedly. "Not about what is going to happen, anyway." A pause. He knows Jack's stubborn silence only too well. With a sigh, he takes a sip of his own coffee. "Where's John?"

"His room, I think. Said something about checking whether anybody had tinkered with his stuff." He hides the smile behind the rim of the mug and takes another sip of coffee. He would put John out of his misery and explain to him that here – now – in the twenty-first century there is still a certain level of respect for privacy. But John probably wouldn't believe him.

"I have arranged a room for you as well.' Jack nods again, still stubbornly refusing to look at him. "In case you don't want to share." He puts down his mug, and casually places a hand on Jack's arm. Muscles tense under his fingers, and not in a good way. He swallows. He can't even begin to get his head around how hard this must be for Jack, being back here and now. In a place that, from Jack's point of view, was destroyed a long time ago. Surrounded by people that are nothing but ghosts in his memory. "If there is anything else you need..."

"I'm fine." Jack sounds tired. Defensive. Hurt. Before he gets a chance to move away, a hand lands on his, keeping him where he is. Fingers trace the outline of his, slowly, unsurely, as if dragging out a distant memory that was buried deep. It feels strange and familiar at the same time. This is, after all, Jack, even if not the Jack he's used to.

"If you say so." Jack finally looks up. The annoyed look hasn't changed much in thirty years – it is still the same Jack – his own Jack, that is – gives him.

"Can't be doing too bad, if I made it this far." A finger sneaks under the cuff of his shirt. There's too much emotion trapped behind every little gesture, and that is only what he can make out behind Jack's poker face. He swallows, wondering what to do to make it easier for Jack. Knowing that he knows he may (or may not) end up dead soon probably wouldn't help – it may just cause Jack to cling even more to the silence and the stubborn facade.

"You have a certain unfair advantage over the average person." Jack raises an eyebrow. "You'll have to at least admit to that." He smiles and raises an eyebrow in reply. Jack gives him a small smile. Well, that's better than nothing. He pauses, wondering how to bring up the subject. "There's one thing I have to ask." Jack shakes his head. "Not about what the original timeline will be." That makes Jack smile. Really smile. Well, if kicking the grammar book around is what it'll take... "You can't tell us about it, because the timeline is threatening to snap again." Jack nods, wary. "What happens if we figure it out?"

Jack lets out a sigh and leans back on his chair, hand still on his, pulling him along. He slides closer along the edge of the table.

"I honestly don't know." Jack pulls a face. "Jack is not the only one who until recently thought this was just theoretical." He nods, and finds himself running his fingers through Jack's hair. Thirty years and still not a single grey. However much of a curse it may be, it does have some advantages.

"You have had longer than him to digest it." Jack closes his eyes. "I thought you may have considered that possibility."

"Well, theoretically, it could be as damaging as us telling you." He lets his fingers trace familiar paths down the side of Jack's head and neck. Jack leans into the touch, eyes still closed, and his mind struggles to even imagine what this may be like. Meeting someone who has been dead for... well, decades, at least. Not a ghost, but the same person one once knew. Alive. Breathing. Warm. "What changes the timeline is not the fact that somebody tells..." Jack's voice breaks.

"But the fact that someone knows more than they should when it happens." It makes sense. In a strange kind of way that seems to suit all these time travelling rules and regulations. Jack nods. "Maybe we shouldn't try and find out." He shivers, remembering the strange sensation in the boardroom earlier. "Not that keen on laddering the Universe any more than it already is." There's the hint of a smile on Jack's lips. Jack's always had a soft spot for Gwen, and sometimes Gwen does have interesting ways of simplifying problems.

"It wouldn't be good, no." There's too much pain trapped in that voice. And it almost hurts, not being able to do anything – or rather not knowing what to do – to drive it away. He's always known Jack would eventually have to carry on without him – well, at least, since he found out Jack cannot die. It is not something that he can easily live with. But being faced with it like this... He shakes his head, driving the thoughts away.

"If we get close to a breaking point again... does it always come with the warning _out of focus_ feeling we got earlier?" He shivers at the memory of the unsettling sensation of the world _dissolving_ around him, disappearing from view as if it never had existed. "Why can I feel it?" Jack bites his lips, as if considering just how much to tell him.

"Only at the point that is causing it." Makes sense. "In theory, that is." Of course. Uncharted territory and rules being rewritten as they go along. "Anybody sensitive to time can feel it, particularly when it is this strong." He nods, considering the implications. "Not all Time Agents are able to feel it, although it is a handy thing in a pinch." A pause. Jack swallows. "At this level of distortion, probably even Gwen noticed it, only not at strongly as you."

"Not pleasant." Jack shakes his head. "And very disconcerting." He lets out a sigh, wondering whether this has something to do with what Jack said earlier, about John dying if they hadn't jumped back, away from the – possibly bigger and more disconcerting – time distortion at the end of what is left of the timeline.

He chooses not to ask. Some things one is better not knowing.

"Not pleasant at all, no." He traces the outline of Jack's ear, and Jack lets out an almost-sigh. "Hence the trying not to snap the timelines again." He nods. "We should be doing this one by the book, and I don't think we've even come close to it. Which is saying something."

"But you have already been giving us pointers about all of this." Jack tenses again. "Someone _was_ here, in the Hub, while we were out." Jack's eye open in surprise, and the poker face quickly dissolves. "You were good, but it's hard to hide when someone has been messing with the Archives. And I _know_ the security systems. They are not foolproof, but they are good enough."

"Is that what tipped you off?" The hint of a smile plays on Jack's lips again. "What made you look for Vortex Manipulator signatures?"

"No." He shakes his head. "That was one of Tosh's unfinished programs. In the Castle, the other night, I was sure I saw John." Jack lifts a hand to his cheek, tentatively, almost scared that he will pull away. "I thought I might be able to get it to work and see if I was right."

"I keep telling him that flamboyant jacket of his will get him in trouble one day." There's a moment of stillness, of unvoiced questions and silent answers.

"But we wouldn't have him any other way." Jack snorts. "It wouldn't be John without the brashness and the bravado and the stupid jacket that raises eyebrows in the dry cleaner's and the sword." He pauses for a second, thumb running lightly over Jack's lips. Eventually Jack nods in agreement.

"There is one thing you can do for me." Barely a whisper. As if the Universe wouldn't notice and the timelines wouldn't snap if they keep their voices low. "Don't take any unnecessary risks." He has to bite back the bitter laugh. "I know this is Torchwood. I know what it's like. Just..." Jack struggles for words for a long moment. "I think you know what I mean." He nods, then leans down and kisses Jack. Just a brush of lips. A remainder of good days. A promise to do his best to make it out alive. Which is as much as he can give, given Torchwood and the extremely low life expectancy of its employees.

With a sigh, he stands up, a hand still on Jack's cheek as he takes a couple of steps away. There is work to be done, systems to check, Weevils to feed, John to find before he gets into trouble. All of that, while dodging an oncoming threat that they are lucky to know exists but can't find too much about, just in case the timelines go wonky again, and trying to stay alive.

Just another bloody day at bloody Torchwood.

He can feel Jack's eyes on him, following his every move. He stops when he reaches the door and turns around. He swallows the knot in his throat – the one he is not really sure where it came from – and holds Jack's gaze.

"Your room is two doors down from John's." A pause, a nod, a silent acknowledgement of topics that will not be touched again. "I would have given you next door, but..."

"But that is being used for storage of some really heavy things that wouldn't be so easy to move elsewhere. I know." He smiles. How can Jack remember small details like that, thirty years on? Does he still remember things from his early days in Torchwood, even though those were... well, over two thousand years ago? It makes his head spin just to think of it. "It's one of the reasons I suggested that room for John. Not much easy to pocket around that part of the corridor."

"Let me know if you need anything else." Reluctantly, Jack nods. "And make sure to stay out of trouble!" Jack gives him a sad smile, grabs his coffee and heads for the bowels of the Hub. Whether he's looking for John, or just for a place where nobody will bother him, is anybody's guess.

He turns around and heads back upstairs, trying hard to ignore the strange tingling sensation around him. Something is not quite right, even if he can't put his finger on it yet.


	14. Jack: future

He is most definitely not hiding. The fact that he didn't even knock on John's door when he walked past it on his way to his own room is neither here nor there. He just needs time to think.

Lying on his back, he looks around for what must be the hundredth time. The room Ianto arranged for him is simple. A camp bed that could be a twin of the one his other self has upstairs, under the office. A desk that Alice bought for Emily shortly after he joined Torchwood, full of secret compartments he found ages ago. An armchair that appeared at some point of the sixties and nobody really found out where it came from. It never ceases to amaze him how he can recall small trivial details like that, and yet sometimes he struggles to remember faces and voices of those he left behind.

This was never supposed to happen. Jack and the others were never supposed to find out they were here. They were never supposed to find out what was going on, what was coming. And now they know enough to threaten the stability of the timelines. He swallows and drives a fist down onto the mattress, biting back the curses.

If he could look at this rationally, he would have to agree that, well, it cannot get worse than it already is. Whether the timelines snap in one place or in one hundred, the result will be the same: time will unravel and the Universe – the Multiverse – will never have existed. In the grand scheme of things, it makes no difference.

But he can't look at it rationally. With one fracture, and knowing _why_ it happened, they may be able to fix it. Not only that, but it may be possible to take advantage of the timelines being in flux while they do that, and nudge them in the right direction. Towards a version of time where his other self and Ianto never walk into Thames House.

His stomach growls, reminding him he hasn't had a decent meal for too long. He ignores it. There's probably food upstairs, or at least some of Ianto's coffee. But he doesn't particularly feel like being up there right now, surrounded by living ghosts. He doesn't want to be reminded of everything he lost, of everything he _destroyed_. Because, however he puts it, it all boils down to the same thing. He never saw – will see – it coming. He blew up the Hub. He got Ianto killed, and drove Gwen away. He destroyed the last remnants of Torchwood, and then ran away.

He shakes his head, pushing the thoughts away. He should have learnt by now that too much thinking can be as bad as – if not worse than – too little. He's here, now, and they have a chance to change how things will play out. Whether they can manage to do that and prevent the timelines from snapping at the same time remains to be seen.

He is still trying to convince himself to go back up and face it all – what is, what may be, what could be, what should be – and at least get another mug of coffee when the door swings open without even a knock and John walks in, thumbs tucked in his gun belt and smiling like the cat that got the cream. Never mind that John's eyes don't reflect the smile at all, and instead show a cloud of worry so unlike John he can't help but wonder if they haven't bitten way more than they can chew. Yet again.

"Thought you'd be hiding in here." Boots clattering on the floor, John crosses the room, takes his sword out of the belt and flops onto the armchair, somehow managing to, despite everything, look as relaxed as if there were absolutely nothing in the world to worry about.

"I am not hiding." John snorts, pulls a face and indolently crosses his legs, left ankle over right knee, sword across his lap. There's a moment of silence where he almost starts to think that maybe just this once John will drop the subject before it turns into an argument.

"You are right, of course. You are not hiding." He sits on the edge of the bed, eyes lost on the wall in front of him, and tries not to take the bait. He should have learnt by now, after so many years putting up with John's unconventional approach to kicking someone back to their feet.

"I am _not_." He shoots John what should be a death threat condensed in a glare, but probably barely comes to an angry stare. Not that it would make much of a difference – not even Ianto's glare seems to have much effect on John. And that is saying something.

"You are brooding. Same thing."

He opens his mouth to reply, to explain that no, he is most definitely not brooding, but thinks better of it and just shakes his head. He's not in a mood for an argument. He has had enough of those over the last few days, ever since John came back from his travels and it became obvious that there was something _really wrong_ with Time. He'll be glad when this is finally over, one way or another, and they can – hopefully – go back to arguing about new recruits for Torchwood or what to do with confiscated alien weapons.

"I'm just trying to figure out exactly what else is going to _not_ go according to plan." John raises an eyebrow and tilts his head. "They were never meant to find out we were here. They were never meant to find out exactly what may be coming their way." John nods, smile vanishing. "We almost caused the timelines to snap again."

"But it didn't happen." There it is again, John's stubborn 'all is well that ends well' attitude. It may have worked for Shakespeare, but he's not so sure it still applies, particularly not with what is at stake.

"It could have." And something tells him it won't be the last time they almost destroy it all while in the process of trying to save it all. That would be ironic, fixing the original snap in the timelines only to cause another that will have the same devastating consequences. Not quite causality paradox, but too close to it for his liking.

"But it didn't." He lets out a sigh and resists the temptation to simply fall back on the bed, close his eyes and pretend none of this is really happening. It never works, and it only ends up wasting time that should be dedicated to getting things done.

"Do you always have to be so optimistic?" It comes out sharper than he intended it, but a bit of edge is a good thing when dealing with John, every now and again.

"I'm not." A pause, a sigh. For a moment, the mask that John always wears, the one that John always hides behinds, drops. Barely a glimpse before John composes himself again, but oh so revealing. "I'm being realistic and pragmatic." John stands up, leaving the sword behind, and takes a few steps towards him. "You, on the other hand, seem to enjoy torturing yourself with what ifs and maybes." John leans closer, until their noses are almost touching, and runs a hand through his hair. "And that can't be good."

And suddenly John's kissing him, all bite and want an a hint of desperation that hadn't been there for a long time. He kisses back. It's hard for him to be here, now, amongst lost loved ones, but he has to remind himself he is not the only one surrounded by ghosts. John carries his own guilt, even if the mighty Captain Hart would never admit to something like that.

When John pulls away and pats his shoulder, the smile seems a little more genuine, if still worried. He nods, a silent admission that maybe – just maybe – John may have a point.

"Anyway, came to tell you, the kids upstairs seem to have found something interesting." He swallows, cold creeping up on him all of a sudden. "We, the mortal ones, are going out to check it. You, the immortals, will wait here and order the pizza when we call on our way back." Despite John's carefree tone, he has a _very_ bad feeling about this.

"What is it?" John goes back to the armchair and slides the sword back into his belt in a gesture so sleek and practised that seems more instinct than thought. When John turns around, lips pursed and all stern looks, he almost growls. Nothing worse than John Hart playing the worried protector. Except maybe knowing that there isn't that much pretence involved in it.

"Whatever it is, you two are staying in." He rolls his eyes. "And keeping the doors locked, and not opening the door to strangers." At that, he can't help the smile. There will be mentions of wolves who eat unwary kids next!

"Why don't you take Gwen?" He follows John out of the room and along the corridor, part of his brain registering that John has managed in three minutes what he couldn't get himself in the last few hours: getting him back on his feet and out of his comfortably yet empty room where nobody reminds him of the dangers that are to come. "Ianto could stay behind and help with..."

"I am most definitely not staying behind." Ianto's voice echoes in the corridor as they turn the corner, and soon Ianto's suited figure comes into view as he emerges from one of the storage rooms. "Somebody needs to keep an eye on John and make sure he makes it back in one piece." John snorts and is about to say something when a look from Ianto quietens him. He raises an eyebrow, wondering if that trick would ever work for him. "Besides, you know what happened last time we let John and Gwen on their own."

"Oh, come on, Eye Candy, just because one time, while under duress, I may have poisoned her just a little..." Ianto laughs, that clear, carefree laugh that even now used to be so rare, and falls into step beside him. A few steps in front, John turns around and keeps walking backwards. For a second, an image of John tripping on something and falling flat on his backside crosses his mind.

"I'm not worried about what you may try to do to Gwen." He snorts. There is something strangely heartwarming in Ianto's sarcasm. "It's more what _she_ may try to do to _you_." John opens his mouth to protest but instead just takes a mock-bow and turns around again. "Not that she's vengeful, mind, but I couldn't really blame her for trying."

He stops, and Ianto stops with him. John looks over his shoulder but carries on walking. It's one thing he has to admit, John always knew when to make a discreet exit stage left and give people the space they needed. Ianto arches an eyebrow and stares at him with impossible blue eyes, and he is once again tempted to take him as far away as possible from here, from the 456 and the destruction to come.

"It's my job, Jack." He nods, the knot on his throat tightening. "I accepted that a long time ago." Ianto takes a step towards him and places a hand on his shoulder. Reassuring. Comforting. He can't help thinking Ianto, once again, seems to know more than is healthy about what is going on, about what may be about to happen. Although Ianto always seems to, so he can't really blame John for that one. Yet. "I hope you will, too. Someday."

Without another word, Ianto walks away, and it takes all his self-control not to shout after him, not to warn him of what is to come. Not to apologise.

Luckily, Ianto is already out of earshot by the time he eventually opens his mouth.


	15. John

He ends up lying on the bed, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling, after everybody else has taken their leave, shortly after they made it back from their little field trip. Which hasn't been entirely fruitless – Ianto managed to pick up the trail of the hitch-hiker Torchwood have been tracking for the last few days – but hasn't shed any light on the matters at hand.

Gwen was the first to leave, as soon as the paperwork for the day was done, which wasn't as quick as it could have been – Torchwood generates an unbelievable amount of paperwork for a secret organisation that should leave no trace of its existence. How she can walk away from this job so easily and slip into her 'normal life' persona and deal with that husband of hers and normal things like shopping and dinners is anybody's guess. Something to admire her for, definitely. He has seen what Torchwood can do to people more times than he wants to remember.

Jack – his Jack – disappeared a while later, muttering something about wanting some peace and quiet and some time to digest the day – again. Not that he can blame him, with everything that hasn't gone according to plan. Ianto followed Jack shortly after. The kid is too good at reading people not to notice that Jack was in fact desperate for company – Ianto's, that is. He exchanged a silent invitation with Jack – Ianto's Jack – before they both shook their heads and Jack almost left, probably looking for a sodding roof to brood on, before remembering both Jacks were, in their own words, under house arrest, and vanishing into that cubby-hole under his office.

All in all, very inconsiderate – of all of them – to leave him to fend for himself.

A knock on the door drags him out of his thoughts and back to reality. He can't help the smile and the shiver down his spine as the possibilities unravel in his mind. Unexpected knocks on the door – at least in the here and now – have a tendency to bring pleasant surprises. Generally involving a certain Welshman with a knack for throwing him off balance by surpassing any expectations he may have.

"Come in!" He turns his head towards the door, and his breath hitches when it swings open and Ianto walks into the room, hands held demurely behind his back. That alone would have been enough to spark his interest, even without the lack of suit jacket and the loosened red tie. "Eye Candy! I thought His Immortalness would keep you occupied for the night." Ianto purses his lips and shakes his head, and there is a look of almost disappointment on that perfectly chiselled face. He raises an eyebrow and waits for the answers to questions he knows he doesn't need to ask.

"He... doesn't need me." Ianto's voice wavers just enough to make it obvious that the kid is hurting, and he doesn't have the heart to correct him. "I'm tired of being treated as if I were made of glass. However good his reasons." He nods, trying not to think – he doesn't want to end up explaining to Ianto much more than he needs to know. Ianto already knows way more than he should.

"So you came to me." After a beat, Ianto nods and licks his lips. "Not that I mind, you know me." He cranks up the smile and waves a hand, beckoning Ianto closer. Ianto blushes and swallows hard. Almost looks away but catches himself in time and holds his gaze, albeit without the usual defiance. When Ianto takes a couple of hesitant steps towards the bed and brings his hands forward, his breath hitches in a textbook definition of 'all Christmases coming together'. "Oh, Eye Candy, you never cease to amaze me..."

His heart is racing, possibilities spinning in his mind. Ianto is holding a length of rope – no, make that two, wound together. Deep crimson in colour and most likely silk, given how it catches the light. Slowly, he stands up and closes the distance between, eyes never moving away from Ianto, almost as if he were afraid Ianto will disappear if he closes his eyes.

He swallows, throat dry, pulse throbbing in his ears. Raises his hands, wrists together, palms up. Bows his head, a shiver running down his spine as he realises just how _easy_ it is to surrender unconditionally to Ianto. To trust. To submit. It should worry him, really, after all those years of keeping people on their toes, of never really allowing others to take control. Anticipation makes his skin tingle, and he has to wonder if the kid has any idea of what he does to him.

The rope touches his skin and it almost burns. It takes him a beat to realise the rope is resting on his hands rather than winding around his wrists. He swallows. When he looks up again, Ianto holds his gaze for a moment, the offer plain and simple. He nods. Much as he would love to let Ianto take the lead and do his worst – which would no doubt be greatly enjoyable – that is not what Ianto needs right now. And he's more than happy to oblige.

He grabs one length of rope, tossing the other one on the bed, and unravels one end of it, passing it over Ianto's head until it's resting lightly against the sensitive skin on the back of the neck. Ianto tenses for a moment, eyes fluttering closed in that oh so sexy way. He lets the rope slide, caressing and playful, barely touching, and Ianto _shivers_ , breath hitching. He's really going to enjoy this. Slowly, he unwinds a bit more of the rope and wraps it loosely around Ianto's neck, keeping both ends and the loop in his hands and pulling Ianto closer. Giving Ianto all the chances in the world to change the game. Ianto simply keeps his eyes closed.

"Clothes." Barely a whisper, barely a hairbreadth away from Ianto's lips. Yet Ianto doesn't move. "Off." Still nothing. "Now." Slow, fluid moments and the waistcoat comes off and is folded neatly. Ianto opens his eyes again and scouts the room looking for somewhere to put it down. "Don't worry about that." Ianto shoots him a disbelieving look, and he smiles back, memories of just how much trouble one can get into by messing with Ianto's clothes rushing back. "Just this once." He tugs at the rope ever so slightly, and Ianto reluctantly lets the waistcoat fall to the floor.

He smiles and enjoys the show of Ianto slowly divesting himself of way too many layers of clothing that no sensible person would insist on wearing, despite the bitter Welsh winter. The tie ends up around his own neck – it is, after all, one of Ianto's favourites, the kid can be forgiven for not wanting to drop it on the floor. Ianto even kicks off his shoes without much ceremony, and lets out an almost whimper when the rope slides off his body, but promptly proceeds to take off socks and underwear once the noose is gone.

He runs a finger along Ianto's jawline, wondering, considering, discarding possibilities and being hit by new ones. He would _love_ to know how the rope came to be in Ianto's possession, but this is not the time for questions. Besides, something tells him there is a story behind it that Ianto is not ready to share yet. Slowly, he places the rope around Ianto's neck again, the loop a bit smaller but still loose. If there is one aspect in life where he has learnt to be patient, it is sex. He may be leading, but it is Ianto who defines the boundaries, the limits that will be broken and those that will not.

"So many things I could do to you..." He runs a finger along Ianto's ear, down his neck, tracing muscles until his finger hits the rope. Ianto doesn't look up, but he can see the beginning of that trademark sarcastic smile playing on Ianto's lips, almost daring him to do his worst before the opportunity is lost and Ianto turns the tables on him. He leaves a playful bite on Ianto's collarbone, and gets a throaty moan in return.

And suddenly it hits him. The strangeness of it all, of a lover he thought he had lost forever not only being here and now but bringing along the offer of one of his favourite games. The knowledge that this could have been, and still could be, a part of his life. If only they manage to pull it off and fix the timelines and nudge them along the right way. He's always been one to enjoy every encounter as if it could be the last, but the feeling has never been so strong as it is now. He swallows, pushing the thoughts away, and hooks a finger under Ianto's chin.

One heartbeat, two, three, and Ianto moves towards him, eyes hungry, mouth half-open. He takes a step back, for once not ready to let Ianto lead from the bottom. Ianto tries to move closer again – he simply pulls a little at one end of the rope, closing the loop a bit more. Ianto stops in his tracks and lets out a frustrated sigh that only makes him smile.

Only then does he move, pressing his body to Ianto's naked figure. Ianto's hands start creeping up his stomach, but after a quiet, barely whispered 'don't', Ianto lets them fall limply again, eyes fixed on him and teeth worrying that oh so tempting bottom lip. He pulls at the rope again, slowly closing the noose around Ianto's neck, cool silk sliding over Ianto's hot skin.

"How far will you let me go, Eye Candy?" A murmured question on Ianto's ear, followed by a hot puff of breath. He can feel the tension, the effort Ianto is putting into not moving. It is part of the appeal of surrender. Knowing one could move, knowing one could stop it at any time, with a single word. And choosing not to. At least it has always been for him. "How far do you trust me?"

Ianto doesn't answer, just stares over his shoulder, eyes darting from side to side. Probably trying to avoid the mirrors that still cover the walls, and failing. He swallows, memories of other times in this same room rushing in. He pushes them away. If there is one thing he has always lived by, it is sharing a new moment with his lovers, rather than one full of past memories.

"Far enough." He can barely make out the words over the thumping of blood in his ears as he pulls at the rope again, both ends this time, leaving the loop sitting snugly around Ianto's neck before letting go of it. With nothing but its own weight to pull at it, the rope just sits there, a gentle reminder of the game they are playing. Ianto swallows, probably all too aware of the silk on his skin.

When Ianto eventually looks at him, blue eyes wide open, pupils blown, it takes a lot of self control not to pounce, not to just push Ianto against the wall or throw him on the bed. He shakes his head and reaches for the rope on the bed. Ianto smiles at him, that enigmatic smile he still hasn't managed to decipher, and all the questions, all the doubts, all the worries, seem to run away from his mind.

No doubt they'll come rushing back in soon, but, for now, it's just Ianto and he.


	16. Ianto

The rope around his neck makes him surprisingly aware of his breathing – shallow, rapid and ragged. Of the blood racing around his body, pounding against the silk on his skin. He opens his mouth, almost gulping for air, only to find two fingers roughly shoved in it and one of John's stern looks on him. He closes his mouth slowly, gently and deliberately sucking at the invading fingers. The rope tightens barely a fraction more, still too loose to even come close to cutting his air, but enough to give him a taste of it.

Trust. Not even Jack has done this to him before. Not even... Intellectually, he can understand the appeal, the look of utter surrender and want in John's face that night in Jack's office with his tie. But he never thought it would feel so... intense. He breathes in deeply, or tries to, as the rope closes around his neck a bit more, John tugging gently at the ends. Fingers press down on his tongue and slide deeper into his mouth. He's painfully hard, and John hasn't really laid a finger on him yet.

"On the bed." The ends of the rope suddenly hang loose again, the weight of the rope itself tightening the loop around his neck a bit more. He blinks for a moment, words slowly filtering to his brain, being processed and understood. He can't help wondering if John has this effect on all his lovers, if John is even aware of how easy it is to surrender to him. "On your knees." He finds himself obeying before he's even thought about it. "Hands behind your back." The sheets feel cold on his skin.

John's foot slides between his knees and spreads them apart, almost making him lose his balance. Rope closes around his wrists, slowly sliding between them and curling over one hand, then the other. John works methodically, bringing the rope up his forearms, all the way to his elbows, the loops close to each other, too tight for him to move his hands, not tight enough to be uncomfortable. John pulls his arms further back as the rope reaches his elbows. He winces. On the mirror in front of him, he can see John smirk.

All delicate hands and feather touches, John rearranges the loop around his neck so that the rope crosses just over his Adam's apple and the tails fall over his shoulders. He swallows and bites his lips, trying not to look at the image reflected in the mirror. When John wraps the other rope around his waist, effectively pinning his arms to the small of his back, he almost loses it.

"Want me to stop, Eye Candy?" He shakes his head. John stills, hands hovering over his skin. Waiting. Offering so much, demanding so little. He closes his eyes, considering. John's lips set on his shoulder, teeth trailing over aching muscles.

"I'll tell you if I ever do." Over his shoulder, John grins, hands deftly crossing the rope in front of him, trapping his cock against his body. He expects the ends to be tied behind him, but John keeps them in his hand, the rope tense but still allowing it to move over him. Cool silk over overheated skin, John's warm body oh so temptingly close yet out of reach.

Two fingers assault his mouth again, roughly. The pressure on his cock and neck increases and he finds himself bucking his hips against the silk. John pulls his hand away again and, before he knows it, those fingers are in his ass, burning as they slide in, and he's pressing hard against them. Another pull at the ropes, gentle lips on his neck, just above the noose. He's helpless and loving every second of it. The threat of violence. The roughness. The pain.

John pulls the fingers out of him and he almost cries out. It's too much, too good and too intense. Lips on his neck, teeth on his earlobe, and a quiet voice on his ear, whispering nonsense, teasing him.

"Lean forward." He swallows, the rope tight around his neck but still not cutting his air. He wants more, but John, in one of his usual games, denies him. "If you want to." He moves barely an inch, and feels the rope around his neck slide to accommodate him. Another inch, and the rope slides again, but not as much. Slowly, he lowers his head, feeling the air being cut out a little. "Good boy."

He's got to give it John, he can be a devious bastard when he wants to. And games in the bedroom – or any other barely appropriate place for sex – seem to be John's speciality. The lower he goes, the deeper John will take him, the deeper the thrusts will go... and the more the rope will choke him. It is, as always with John, his choice. John will fuck him senseless regardless of what he does.

He's almost got his face on the mattress when John finally pushes into him, all heat and barely enough lube to keep it the right side of painful. Then stillness, rough jeans John hasn't bothered to take off biting into his ass. The rope around his cock tightens as well. It all hurts but keeps him wanting more. He twists his head a bit, enough to see the image on the mirror on the side of the bed, and finds John staring at him.

"I should have gagged you." He shivers and tries to move his hips. To do something. Anything. The rope around his neck relaxes just a fraction and he gulps for air while he can. "I will do, next time." Another pull at the ropes as John slowly pulls out before slamming back inside him. He'd moan, or cry, or something, but can't find the air for it. "I'm sure after this there will be a next time." Another deep thrust, and he finds himself leaning further down, air even more scarce now.

John doesn't rush it. Every time his lungs start burning John lets go of the ropes. Air flows into his body, refreshing, reinvigorating. Darkness recedes, making him even more aware of every sensation, every nerve, every fibre in his body. His cock twitches, almost free from its silky cage. Then the ropes tense again, and everything changes. His body goes into overdrive, his mind retreats. He loses count of how many aching breaths he takes, of how many times John tightens the ropes around him.

"I love it when you beg like that." It takes a beat before he recognizes the half-choked murmurs of 'please' and 'more' as his own voice. John stops moving and leans closer, body wrapped around him, ropes hanging limply around him, teeth sinking on the back of his neck. "I could do anything I wanted to you right now."

The thought makes him shiver. The niggling voice at the back of his mind that insists maybe this once he has bitten off more than he can chew is quickly subdued when John runs a finger delicately along his flank. There is no doubt that John _could_ do anything to him right now, and there's very little he would be able to do about it.

But there is also an odd reassurance that John won't harm him.

It makes him feel alive.

It's almost too much when John starts moving again, pulling at the ropes in one swift movement that makes him think this kind of games have featured extensively in John's life. He gasps for air, struggles against the ties, tries to get away and closer at the same time. Behind him, John tenses, pleasure so obviously playing on his face on the mirror, nails digging on his hip. The part of his brain that is still doing that highly overrated rational thinking has to marvel at how John manages enough coordination to keep just the right tension on the ropes. The rest of him just welcomes the hand that curls around his cock and squeezes just a bit.

"Tell me, Eye Candy..." John's voice is ragged and shaky. "Who gave you the ropes?" He can hear everything John is not saying in that simple question. John's hand starts moving, painfully slow. The fact that John knows the ropes weren't his originally. He shakes his head as much as he can in his bonds. "Oh, come on." Barely a whisper. "You can't show up in my room with toys and not tell me where they came from..."

The rope tightens a bit more around his neck, John's hand squeezes again, harder this time. He almost loses it. Gasps for air. Bucks his hips. John teases him, lets him breathe for just a moment, ghosts hands all over his body. He's pretty sure he moans and pleads and demands, but nothing seems to have an effect.

"Tell me, Ianto." A whisper in his ear. He shakes his head again. Tries to breathe, to keep the darkness at bay, to hold on to the myriad of sensations assaulting his senses.

Air rushes in as he comes, the rope suddenly loose, John's teeth on his neck, John's hand wrapped tightly around his cock. His whole body flares up in flames, or it feels like it, pleasure running through him. Life, love, sex, never felt so intense.

He struggles to keep his balance. John kicks his knees from under him and he ends up lying flat on his stomach, still gasping. Something cold, metallic, rests between his hands, and he recognizes the flicker of one of John's knives in the mirror.

"Shall I cut you loose?" He shakes his head. "Someone you cared for, then." He closes his eyes, brain slowly rebooting and trying to make sense of John's words. "The ropes. They belonged to someone you cared for." He licks his lips and tries to look away, but it's hard in a room full of mirrors, particularly when he can barely move. "Someone you can no longer share them with." He swallows hard, hoping against hope that John will stop asking questions he doesn't want to answer. "Memento mori." He nods. That much he can concede.

The knife disappears, and deft hands undo the knots that hold him. Blood rushes in, pins and needles and gentle caresses mixing in an interesting way. John straddles him, sitting on his thighs, and idly runs hands and nails and teeth and lips all over his skin.

When John lies beside him and somehow manages to bring the covers over them, he can't help but think certain things get to John more than the rogue will ever admit to.


	17. Jack: present

He's _bored_. Utterly and completely bored beyond belief. Tired of being bored, of being prisoner in his own home, of being left behind to do the paperwork while Gwen, Ianto and John deal with Weevils, unexplained alien signals, disappearing ducks – of all things that could disappear, ducks! - and hitch-hikers that have been playing hard to get.

If he has to spend another day in the Hub, he really is going to snap. Which, granted, may not be as bad as timelines snapping, but, according to _some_ , he's not a nice person to have around when in a sour mood. 'Dire consequences' and all, he would much rather take his chances out there and at least be doing _something_. Not that he has any desire for being responsible for the destruction of the entire Universe – or Multiverse – but there is only so much inaction he can take.

He almost jumps out of his chair when the alarm that precedes the rolling of the cog door goes off, filling the spaces with echoes. He is starting to understand why Alex used to find it so annoying after handing the field over to him – it can be a really ear-piercing noise when heard from this side of the door.

"I'm telling you, John, stay away from me." Gwen sounds furious as she walks in, boots clattering on the concrete, one hand clenched on the shoulder strap of her bag. Her expression changes when she sees him. "How much longer do we have to put up with this, Jack?" She walks past him and collapses on the tattered sofa. "He spent the whole morning..."

He raises a hand and Gwen takes the hint and stops talking just as John comes in, followed by Ianto a few steps behind. The cog door and the cage close behind them, and the alarm finally dies off. Thankfully. He has to smile at the irony that it was him who insisted the Hub needed security measures, alarms and any other mechanism that would ensure nobody got in unannounced.

Ianto briskly makes his way to the coffee pot, looking desperately in need of caffeine, a few weeks of sleep and some decent, hearty food to compensate for the two days of pizza and takeaways they have had since John and Jack showed up. John heads for the sofa as well, probably not aware of the fact that being anywhere near Gwen right now may not be a good idea. He steps in John's way at the last moment, and John stops short of colliding with him.

"What?" John stares at him, defiant and pretending not to care, but he stopped believing John's act a long time ago. "What's she been complaining about this time? My driving?" He turns towards Gwen.

"You let him _drive_?" Gwen does not answer. "Whose brilliant idea was that?" He turns to John again, only to find him _laughing_ , thumbs tucked in the gun belt. He lets out a sigh. "Forget it, I don't wanna know." Ianto comes up the steps, a tray with drinks in his hands and a half smile on his lips. "Sometimes ignorance is bliss."

Ianto's steps falter, and he has to wonder. Has John told Ianto anything he doesn't know about? John always had very good instincts about timelines, and how to nudge them along the right way. Back in the Agency, John was considered a natural – he always seemed to have an answer when asked how to accomplish a certain change. Even if quite often that answer was based on nothing more than a hunch. It wouldn't surprise him if John had handed out shreds of information to all of them, in such a way that timelines are not compromised but that could still give them some advantage if they put it all together.

"No, they didn't let me drive." John raises an eyebrow and grabs a mug of coffee from Ianto's tray before Ianto sneaks past them and hands another one to Gwen. "Though I'd love to, now that you mention it. You know me, and fast vehicles of any kind." He rolls his eyes, and makes a conscious decision not to let John _ever_ drag him into that discussion. "I really don't know what all this fuss is about, Gwen. Anybody would think I've tried to poison you again!"

Ianto snorts as he takes a couple of steps towards him and offers him a drink from the tray. He reaches out for his mug and takes a sip of it. There is a moment of silence and stillness as everybody drinks, and he has to admire Ianto's peacekeeping skills once again. Gwen's reply to John's sarcasm dies in her lips, and even John seems to relax a notch. When he raises his eyes from his mug, snarky remark about the power of caffeine forming in his head, Ianto is nowhere to be seen. He shoots John an inquisitive look, and John just shrugs.

"He's probably delivering the caffeinated nectar of the gods to your other grumpy self." John puts the mug down and stretches, arms above his head, back cracking in an alarming way that, John being John, is entirely natural. "You know how cranky you get if you miss your doses of coffee, and, let me tell you, it doesn't get any better with age." With a sigh, John picks up his drink again and flops on the chair behind him, sword being pulled out of the gun belt and placed on the desk in one fluid motion. "If anything, it gets worse."

"How much longer do we have to put up with this, Jack?" Behind him, Gwen sounds tired. "You should have seen the scene he made at the hospital." He turns around and finds her blushing. "If he ever does anything like that again..." The threat dies in the air.

"Yes, Gwen, I know, you will try to do some Very Nasty Things to me." John yawns, almost bored. "Unfortunately for you, I don't think you would manage to even scratch me." Luckily, Gwen is smart enough not to take the bait.

"I swear, Jack, next time, he can bloody go out there on his own." She leans back on the sofa and cradles the mug in her hands, a frustrated look in her face. "I'm not getting out of bed at four in the morning to babysit him again after today."

"I don't need babysitting, thank you, Mrs. Williams." Gwen growls, and John's smile widens. John will never grow up.

"It's Cooper." Muttered through clenched teeth. "I never changed my name."

"If you are done with the snark, maybe we could move on to more important things." Ianto's voice startles him, barely a few steps away. "Like kids stopping in the middle of the road and blocking the traffic for almost a minute."

"Flashmob?" Gwen offers helpful. John raises an eyebrow and stares at her blankly. "You know, a group of people getting together to do something silly, like pointing at the sky and shouting 'aliens are coming', and then disappearing." Ianto sits down beside Gwen. "It wouldn't be the first time..."

"Check it out anyway." It comes out a bit sharper than he intends. It looks like he _is_ in a sour mood after all. "It may be something we have to take care of."

"Or it may just be an alien ship ignoring the guidelines, flying a bit too close to this bloody piece of rock and interfering with kids brains, but never mind." John drinks the last of his coffee and switches on the computer. "It has happened before. No, wait, it hasn't yet, but it will happen." Gwen shakes her head. "But we will check it out, oh, Captain, our Captain."

Both Gwen and Ianto stand up from the sofa, mugs in hand. Gwen sits at her station, turns on screens and places the keyboard across her lap. Ianto finishes his drink and leaves the mug by the sink on his way to the Archives, a look of concentration on his face that most likely means Ianto is already trying to figure out where to find anything that may – even remotely – relate to this. Assuming that 'this' is something they need to worry about.

A few minutes after Ianto disappears into the bowels of the Hub, Jack walks in, looking tense and worried. As in, more than usual, which is saying something. And, with Jack, comes the unsettling feeling he hasn't managed to shake even after two days. He stares at his other self, wondering what could be about to go so horribly wrong to put that kind of weight on him – on his future self, that is. He swallows.

Sometimes ignorance is bliss.

"Are you two going to help, or just stand there and watch us work?" Gwen doesn't even lift her eyes from the screens in front of her. "Cos, there's plenty here for all of us, you know?" He takes a few steps towards her, leaning over her shoulder so he can skim over the data. "I'm getting reports of seventeen traffic accidents, happening right across the country, all the way from Glasgow to St Ives."

"Is that above average?" He frowns. Something is not right. "I've seen the way some people drive, it's surprising there aren't more accidents every day." John snorts, but doesn't say a word. Maybe it just takes two Jack Harkness death glares to keep John quiet.

"Well, they all occurred between eight forty and eight forty-one. Seventeen road traffic accidents happening in exactly the same minute?" Gwen shakes her head. "And every single one of them involving children?" Ianto walks back in with a stack of papers under his arm and a pensive look on his face as he flicks through the file in his hands. "All of them were just standing in the road. Not crossing the road, just standing." John rolls his chair closer, and Jack makes his way up the stairs. "Like the ones we saw this morning."

"Nothing like that mentioned in the Archives that I can find." Ianto sits on the sofa and spreads the files in the table in front of him. "But there are a few instances of strange behaviour involving children."

The look Jack and John share, the tension between them as John heads back to his station, doesn't escape him. Something tells him whatever it is that shouldn't be allowed to happen is starting.

"I have fifteen road traffic accidents, all timed around 9.40." John brings up a new screen of data, expanding the search. "They're an hour ahead, so it was simultaneous."

"All involving children?" He asks, but he's not sure he wants to know. Ianto leaves the paperwork and heads for his own computer. Something about this is really wrong. He can handle alien threats. He can handle global alien threats, and psychotic Time Lords wanting to control the Universe. He can handle just about anything, but threats to kids somehow get under his skin.

"Yep. Hold on." Ianto brings up a few searches and puts them through one of Toshiko's programs. "Cross-referencing." A pause as the software runs. "Here we go. Reports coming in, RTAs in Norway. Sweden. Denmark. Luxembourg. Spain. Portugal. Bosnia. Japan."

"All over the world." Gwen sounds worried now. "All at the same time, given timezones differences."

He takes a deep breath, eyes darting from Jack to John. The voices fade into the background as he tries to decipher the silent conversation those two are having. There is tension in the air, and Jack seems to be holding his breath, _waiting_. Shaking his head, he heads back to his office.

"Anything you find, let me know immediately." He catches himself just as he is about to close the door behind him. Whatever it is they are about to walk into, he needs his team with him. He can't isolate himself from them. Not right now.

However hard it may be.


	18. John

It's hard to be here, now, watching it all unfold. Jack never says much about these days, and the few times he managed to get Jack to talk, there was too much about guilt and what ifs and 'I should haves' and barely enough to get a clear idea of _exactly_ what had happened. Jack never gave him much to go by, not even after they jumped back, after Torchwood found them and it became clear that they would have to live through the events again if they wanted to fix this mess.

Still, it's hard to know – more or less – what is coming and not be able to tell them any more than he already has. The feeling of the timelines about to snap two days, three hours, four minutes, sixteen seconds ago was enough of a reminder of just how worse things can get, even when he thought they couldn't. Of just how narrow the line he's walking is.

The sound of a phone being slammed back on the hook drifts out from Jack's office, followed by a frowning Jack to match the one currently sitting on the sofa and going over the files Ianto brought up from the Archives earlier. Twin Jacks. Ah, the things he could be doing to them – with them – if it weren't for this pesky having to save the Universe – Multiverse – thing.

"Of all the times for Martha Jones to go on holiday!" Gwen turns her head towards him to hide her smile from Jack. From both Jacks, actually. "I get Sergeant Grunt. I'm talking to a _sergeant_!" He finds it hard not to laugh. Jack never used to be so picky about talking to that rank and file, back in the day. Hell, rank and file tend to know more about what's going on than the brass, in any time and place he's ever been to.

"Don't you dare phone her, she's on her honeymoon!" Gwen points a finger at Jack in a warning gesture that has more affection than actual threat of violence. "She deserves a bit of peace and quiet, Martha. Particularly after the last time you dragged her into Torchwood business." Both Jacks grimace, and it is disconcerting. Anybody would believe they are identical twins with a knack for reacting in unison. "Anyway, what did UNIT have to say? Not much, I expect." Jack nods and stands behind Ianto, a hand on Ianto's shoulder, eyes darting over the data in the screens.

"A couple of UNIT bases have run some tests on a few kids." A pause, and he has to wonder why this seems to already be getting under Jack's skin. Something seems to be bothering Jack – both Jacks, actually – more than anything he has ever seen either of them deal with. "Brain scans, blood sugar, checking for radiation. Nothing." A pause. Maybe it is the fact that it involves kids that is spooking Jack. "They will be doing some more tests, will let us know as soon as they find anything, the usual." The usual inter-agency bollocks, more likely. He dished enough of it during his days in the Agency to know.

"So, if something really is affecting the kids, UNIT can't find it?" Jack nods, and Gwen grimaces. Maybe it's not only Jack being sensitive to this involving kids. He raises an eyebrow. Someone once said that the easiest way to defeat a civilisation is to threaten their offspring. It may bring out the fighting spirit in everybody, but it also throws them off-balance more effectively than anything else ever could. "Fat lot of good, UNIT are." Jack shoots her a sideways look full of reproach. "Well, I'm just saying. We help them more often than they help us." Too right, Mrs. Williams, the boys in the red berets may be good staring material, but they never seem to be around when one needs them.

"They are good when we need manpower, though." Ianto, always the peacekeeper, jumps in, hands still moving on the keyboard. "Except, well, when they are too busy dealing with other stuff."

"Which is often." Ianto nods at Gwen. Jack shakes his head. He is starting to get a headache of all this typing and reading. He really can't face the thought that it will still take a few centuries for computers to actually become _useable_. It never ceases to amaze him when he thinks of everything that Tosh managed to accomplish with the Torchwood systems, despite their obvious limitations.

"Gwen, pay up! He's back!" He pushes his thoughts away before they start getting in the way. Both Jacks lift their heads in unison, with matching raised eyebrows and everything. Definitely much better things he could be doing than this. He swallows and brings his mind back to the problem at hand. Helping without giving too much away. Lines to toe, timelines to restore.

Oh, by the goddesses, this saving the Multiverse thing really will be the death of him if he doesn't watch it.

"Who's back?" Jack – Ianto's Jack – stares at one of Ianto's screens, where CCTV of the Plass is being shown. Jack – his Jack – sinks back into the paperwork, rearranging the files in the pile, and shooting him an occasional glare full of meaning. It doesn't take a genius to realise what Jack is doing. A folded page here, a clip out of place there. Subtle hints that may be useful. He can feel Time around him tensing, almost like an elastic band being stretched for a second before being released again. Toeing the line. Carefully toeing the line, holding his breath that there will be no more snapping.

"What's he doing?" Gwen keeps typing eyes still on her computer as programs run and cross-reference data from more sources than he cares to remember. Trust Torchwood to come up with a sort-of-sensible and almost effective way of preventing the whole "drowning in data, lacking information" phenomenon. Even with this ancient equipment.

"Waiting. Just like I said. He has been there... almost since we got back." Ianto presents his hand, palm up. "Now pay up." Gwen sighs. "You bet twenty quid he wouldn't show up. I have witnesses." Ianto stares at him, and he smiles his most innocent smile in return.

"Persistent." Gwen puts a hand in the pocket of her jeans, pulls out two ten-pound notes and places them unceremoniously on Ianto's hand. The money is quickly folded and taken out of sight, disappearing into one of the many pockets of Ianto's suit. And people talk about _his_ jacket having hiding places!

"Good sign." Yes, Ianto, good sign of madness. Anybody chasing Torchwood like that guy has been doing for the last couple of days needs to have their head examined. He has to smile at the irony that chasing Torchwood is pretty much what he did. But, well, he had good reasons to want to get close to them. And he's always enjoyed a life with more than a hint of danger. But he has to wonder what prompts otherwise normal people, with seemingly normal, happy lives, to join Torchwood. "And dogmatic as well."

"Always a plus." Gwen smiles and spins in her chair, leaving her computer busy running some kind of crossmatch and facing Jack. Both Jacks. Who are looking equally annoyed at being kept in the dark. Fortunately, his Jack seems to have taken the rather sensible approach of letting Ianto's Jack take the lead. Something to do with whose turf this is, time-wise. Never argue with the designated incarnation of oneself for the time one is currently in. Surely that was some sort of time travelling rule somewhere.

"Are you two ever going to explain who he is, or do we have to play twenty questions?" Hands on his hips, Jack's eyes move between Gwen – who doesn't reply – and Ianto – who still has his back to Jack and is concentrating on his workstation. "Cos, it got kind of dangerous last time we did that while trying to figure something out."

"Rupesh Patanjali." Gwen eventually caves in. Ianto shoots her a glare that pretty much says 'that lasted point two seconds, it does not qualify as winding Jack up', and goes back to his screens. "He saw the hitchhiker. He's the one who told us about the bodies that have been going missing."

"What bodies that have been going missing?" Jack is positively furious now. He knew Jack wouldn't react well to being cooped in this long, but it was the only way he could make sure nobody would use Jack as a bomb carrier. Well, the only way he could think of that wouldn't involve putting others in danger. Because, generally speaking, those who want someone dead as badly as the people in Whitehall are going to want Jack dead soon don't tend to have any qualms about collateral damage. "Seriously, who runs this place? You are keeping me out of the loop of _everything_." Ah, if Jack only knew just how much he's not being told. Then he would really have a reason to be angry. "And how did he find us? Did he follow you?"

"Ask about Torchwood, most people point towards the Bay." Ianto's deadpan tone makes him laugh out loud. Eye Candy is, as usual, right. Torchwood have not been very good at keeping a low profile in the last few years.

"Something to do with that oversized vehicle of yours, Jack." Jack stares at him, almost daring him to openly defy him. He shrugs, the movement dislodging one of the many knives from the inside of his jacket and into his left hand. He grabs it and flips it in the air, a clear reminder that he won't be easily intimidated. "Doesn't do much for covert operations."

"So, why haven't we retconned him yet and made sure he'll never show up here again?" Gwen snorts and rolls her eyes. Of course, that's how Jack dealt with her finding out about Torchwood in the first place. Not very effective as a means of keeping the secret of Torchwood, but apparently a good recruiting technique.

"He is a doctor." There's a hint of pain in Gwen's voice when she says that, and her eyes go to the picture of Owen and Tosh still on her desk.

"We _need_ a doctor." Ianto presses one more key and spins around to face Jack as well. "Preferably before someone who isn't immortal gets seriously hurt."

"We thought maybe..." Gwen pauses for a second. "Maybe I should go and talk to him before he gives up and leaves."

Behind them, Jack - his Jack – shakes his head, looking even more worried than he has ever since they found out about all of this. Something tells him this Rupesh played an important part in whatever is about to unfold and did end up with the Hub blown up to pieces the first time around.

"Nah." He yawns. By the goddesses, he really needs to find the time to get some sleep. Either that or something to keep him awake. Can't be making mistakes just because he's tired. "You lot carry on doing whatever magic it is you are doing on the computers." He stands up and stretches his arms above his head, the knife disappearing back into its place. Three pairs of impossible blue eyes follow him as he heads for the cog door. "I'll go talk to this Rupesh. After all, if I scare him off, he's not Torchwood material."


	19. Ianto

It's hard to concentrate with Jack's breath puffing on his ear, humid heat on his skin in that casual way that Jack doesn't even seem to be aware of. His hands waver on the keyboard, and it takes a few deep breaths to stop them from shaking. To his right, Gwen pretends not to notice, but the smirk on her face tells an entirely different story. She's been teasing them since she found out – which was later than he expected – but particularly since it's been just the three of them. It's hard to ignore the pang that still comes when he thinks of Tosh and Owen.

"This search is not going to go any faster just because you stare at it, Jack." Jack's places a hand on his shoulder, fingers digging, and he can sense the tension. A heartbeat, two, three, before eventually Jack moves a few steps away. He clears his throat, types in a few more commands to kick off yet another crossmatch of information and brings the CCTV of the Plass to the foreground.

When he spins his chair around, he's faced by two Jacks. Wearing exactly the same clothes, which makes it even more unnerving. One of these days he's going to snap over his first cup of coffee and send one of them to get changed. His Jack is leaning on the wall, arms crossed in front of him and a worried look on his face – but there is still the hint of a smile somewhere. Trust Jack to play the dashing hero even two minutes away from the planet being blown up.

It's not like Jack hasn't done just that.

 _Several times_.

The other Jack is gloomily flicking through the files he brought up earlier. _Rearranging_ them. Flipping pages out of order. _In front of him_. When Jack catches his eyes and stares at him, all innocence and defiance, any doubt he may still have had vanishes. He will have to go through those files again and see exactly _what_ Jack has been doing with them and what clues have just been left on them. He raises an eyebrow, reluctant to let it go, but Jack doesn't budge.

And it's not like he is in a position to complain about Jack toeing the line and _trying_ to give them something to go by in whichever mess is just starting up there.

"So, Jack." Gwen turns around, eyes darting from one Jack to the other, struggling to find the tell-tale signs of which one is which. His brain seems to stop halfway through that thought. No matter how often John insists he's got a knack for time travelling, certain things – like two Jacks in the room – still give him a headache. "How exactly are we going to know the timelines are fixed?" He raises an eyebrow at the question. "I'm guessing just because we get through today without..." Gwen's voice trails off.

The two Jacks have a whole conversation condensed in a stare, a few raised eyebrows and a tilt of head or two. He can't help wonder if that is how it looks to the rest of the world when he and Jack do the same. He swallows, thoughts wandering. There is something about the idea two Jacks, once he manages to get past the headache.

"Yeah, it will take a bit more than just getting through today without blowing the Rift." Jack grimaces and pushes himself off the wall. "But it would be a good start." Suddenly, Jack takes a couple of steps towards his station, pointing at the screen. "What's going on up there?" Jack taps a couple of buttons on his wriststrap. "John? What's happening?"

He spins around and presses a few keys to turn the audio of the CCTV. On the Plass, there is an eerie silence, broken only by worried voices addressing unmoving kids. It's happening again. Just like this morning. For a moment, they all stare at the screens. As if trying to process the images, trying to understand what the Hell is going on.

"Ianto, Gwen, kill those two if you have to but make sure they stay down there." Jack is already heading to his office – no doubt to grab the greatcoat – when John's voice fills the room. "Jack, I mean it, if you show either of your heads up here I'll shoot you on sight."

"Are you sure you don't need a hand?" Jack – John's Jack – stands up, hands adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. A glint of silver catches his eyes, and a knot forms in his throat. The cufflinks Jack is wearing are his. Were his. Depending on when he looks at it from. Something stirs somewhere inside him, and it takes him a minute to recognise it. Defiance. Determination. The raw _need_ to survive this, and everything else that Torchwood may throw his way. For as long as he can. He knows eventually Jack will have to go on without him, but he'll make sure it takes as long as possible before that happens.

Shaking his head, he stands up and taps Gwen in the shoulder, tilting his head towards the door. Gwen nods, grabs her bag and heads out. Without argument, for once. Maybe the idea of being responsible for destroying the whole Universe – or Multiverse, if John is right – is enough to make sure Gwen will follow the plan.

"Don't worry, John." He taps a couple of keys, grabs his coat and heads for the door, trying not to run, trying not to go back. "They won't be going anywhere." He looks over his shoulder as the cage and the cog door open. Gwen shoots him an unsure look – he nods reassuringly. "Sorry, Jack." Computers start turning off as he gets out, though a few remain on – this is, after all, the lockdown mode that goes with Tosh's time lock, and is supposed to be used while they are _inside_ the Hub. Doors everywhere start slamming shut with reassuring thuds and clunks. Both Jacks bolt for the door but the cage locks just as they get to it. Jack – his Jack – punches one of the bars. The cog door rolls closed, and the lights in the Hub dim. He turns around and rests his back on the cold metal. "I'm sorry..."

A few steps ahead of him, Gwen stops in her tracks and walks back to him.

"Hey. You okay?" He nods, the knot in his throat tightening. "You don't look it." Gwen looks worried. "Can't blame you, with all this time travelling lark." She gives him that bright smile of hers, and he's torn between appreciating her concern and letting her know she's got it entirely wrong.

Or maybe both.

"I'm fine." He pushes himself away from the door and heads towards the stairs. One of the downsides of putting the Hub into lockdown, the lift doesn't work without power.

"If you say so." With a sigh, Gwen trots up the stairs after him. "Now, for the next time, can we put the lift in a separate circuit so it can still be used when we do this?"

He smiles and makes a mental note to take care of that when he's got time. Which may not be for a while yet.

A piercing, unearthly screech fills the air as they come out of the tourist office. It takes him a minute to realise they are children's voices. Children screaming. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He looks at Gwen and she grimaces, obviously as disturbed by the whole thing as he is. With a sigh and a raised eyebrow, he breaks into a run towards the Plass, looking for John's distinctive red jacket.

He finds him, just as he expected, by one of the screaming children, with Rupesh – looking all wide-eyed and almost mesmerised – in tow.

"What's she doing? What's that noise?" There is a woman standing by the young girl, shaking her by the arm as if to drag her out of this almost zombie state. The words are full of worry, and fear, and he finds himself looking for a comforting answer – and not finding one.

"No idea." Something tells him John is lying. He raises an eyebrow but doesn't press the matter. The last thing he needs now is to trick John into saying something that will mess with the timelines again. Behind him, the mother is still shaking the girl.

"There's another one over there!" Rupesh crosses the distance to a group where two kids are also stock still. "It's all right, it's all right, I'm a doctor." Not a bad start, lying in the name of Torchwood to reassure those that need it. Maybe Rupesh _is_ Torchwood material after all.

Suddenly, the screaming stops, and the silence is even scarier than the unearthly noise that filled the air a minute ago. But the children are still standing still. Unnaturally still.

"We." The three kids start talking in unison. "We." It's disturbing to a level that Torchwood hadn't managed to show him before. "We." He looks into the distance. Other groups, all centred around children. "We." Oh God, David and Mica. Are they okay? "We."

He swallows. It all gets a bit blurry all of a sudden, a mixture of guilt for keeping David and Mica and Rhiannon – and even Johnny – away, for not being able to have a normal day with them without Torchwood interrupting, or secrets getting in the way. Of knowing even without Torchwood he would have stayed away, for way too many reasons. Of wishing so many things could be different. The children keep chanting, and he can't shake the feeling this is only going to get much worse.

"We are." Gwen give him a puzzled look, to which he just shrugs. "We are." Nothing in the Archives or in the Torchwood systems ever mentioned possessed children talking in unison. "We are." That he knows of, anyway. He stares at John, daring him to deny any knowledge of what is going on. "We are." All he gets in reply is a silent warning not to ask too many questions. For the good of the Universe, and such. "We are."

He stops, suddenly realising what is going on. First the scream. Then a single word. Somebody – something – is struggling to control the children. _Learning_ how to. That is why there is no record of it. This is a new trick.

"We are coming." The words feel like a shower of cold water. "We are coming."

"Oh, my God!" Gwen spins around, hands clasped to her mouth. John simply grimaces, hands moving dangerously close to weapons, as if he felt threatened. The kids keep chanting, 'we are coming'. Adults plead, shake, shout, weep.

And suddenly it stops. The children just... spring back into life, moving, jumping around, looking over their shoulders and beckoning parents to follow.

He swallows. Stares at John, offering him a chance to lead this, to help out, but John shakes his head. Gwen seems to be too busy coping to actually take charge.

"Okay." He claps his hands, nerves on edge. "This is out in the open, containing it is out of the question." Gwen nods. John gives him a wary look, and he has the feeling whatever happens in the next few seconds will define the outcome of the next few days. "Gwen, call UNIT, stomp on whomever you have to but get them to move. _Now_. Yesterday if they can manage that."

"Move?" Gwen takes out her mobile and starts dialling. "We're not sure what this is yet!"

"Just get them ready. They'll need us, and we'll need them." Gwen nods and takes a few steps away, phone to her ear. "John."

"Eye Candy!" John flashes a smile that doesn't quite hide the tension underneath.

"I somehow _know_ there is something I shouldn't do right now." John nods and tucks his thumbs in his belt. "And, of course, you can't tell me what it is." John pulls a face and gets closer, resting a hand on his cheek, thumb running over his lips. He leans into it, feeling all the tension in John's body through that simple contact. He's barely aware of Rupesh in the background, of eyes following his every move. "Anything you can give, John. I'll take anything you can give." John nods again.

"Trust your instincts." He swallows.

"Rupesh, get back to A&E." He raises a hand when the doctor tries to protest. "The city will be in chaos, and everywhere will be flooded with concerned parents and their kids. They need you there." Rupesh looks like he is about to protest and _demand_ some explanation, but then his pager beeps. After a brief look at it, reluctantly, Rupesh sighs and nods. "And, if John here hasn't scared you off, come down by the Bay when this is over, and we'll talk."

"How many times do I have to explain it? I don't scare people off." He has to snort at that. He watches Rupesh walk away, and some of the tension around him seems to disappear. Even John lets out a sigh of almost relief, and he finds it impossible not to kiss John, teeth worrying lips and tongues seeking and exploring. A moment of sanity in the madness that is Torchwood.

"Oh, come on, you two, break it up!" Gwen's voice – more good-humour banter than actual outrage – startles him, but he refuses to pull away from John for just one more second. "Seriously, have you got no shame?"

"I would have expected you to know the answer to that by know, Mrs. Williams." Gwen opens her mouth but then seems to think better of it and lets it slide. "What did UNIT have to say, anyway?"

"They are, apparently, awaiting information." As usual. "They are in touch with Whitehall, UN and all the usual suspects, but won't move out without anything concrete. The usual 'could do more harm than good if we move without the right data', apparently."

"So we are on our own." Yes, John, just as usual. His eyes fall to the ground, his mind even further down.

"Will they be okay down there?" Barely a whisper, because he can't bear the thought that Jack – both of them – will have a lot to say once all of this is over, and none of it will be good.

"Safer than up here." John's hand slides down to his shoulder and grips reassuringly, fingers digging through the layers of clothing.

"They'll hate me for this."

"If you let them, yeah, they will try to." John sighs, and starts heading towards the garage. "If you remind them of what is at stake here, at least one of them will suddenly be on your side and agree that you did the right thing." Gwen places a hand on his arm, an attempt at kind reassurance that doesn't quite work, and then follows John.

"Where are we going?" It takes him a few seconds to react and follow them. "We don't have a clue what is going on!"

"Correction, Gwen, _you_ don't have a clue. I have plenty. Unfortunately, I can't share."


	20. Jack: present

His hand hurts. He should know by now that reinforced metal bars generally don't react _at all_ when punched, and can cause bones that collide with them to break. Luckily, this time there don't seem to be any broken bones, but his hand still hurts. With a sigh, he heads for the autopsy bay – Owen used to keep some really good ice packs in the fridges, and hopefully they'll still be there after Ianto's latest cleaning operation.

"Trust me, Jack, it's better this way." His own voice – or rather that of his future self – drifts from above as he's rummaging through the third fridge. It takes a lot of effort not to turn around and shout a couple of facts at this apparently all-knowing, thoroughly annoying version of himself. It takes even more effort not to bolt up the stairs and punch himself. It would probably be as useless as hitting the cage, but it would make him feel much better right now.

"Is it, Jack?" He turns around, struggling to keep a calm voice as he wraps the ice pack around his knuckles. The cold seeps through skin and muscles, slowly dulling the pain. "Is it, _really_?" Above him, Jack leans on the railings, one foot on the lower rung, hands clasped together. "According to your tale, the greatest threat to this Universe ever is about to be unleashed, and I am locked in here while _my_ team are out there." Jack opens his mouth to reply, but takes a beat to find an appropriate response.

"You are missing the point." He raises an eyebrow in surprise. He had been expecting Jack to play the good old 'they are my team as well' card, and had already thought of one or two things to throw Jack's way about it. This, however, is a bit unexpected.

"Am I?" He holds Jack's gaze, hands balling into fists as he struggles to keep even the appearance of calm. "What _is_ the bloody point then?" Is this why Owen always found him so annoying? Does he already go around pretending he knows it all, just like this Jack is doing?

"The threat up there, what is happening to the kids right now." A pause, almost as if Jack were giving Time a chance to complain about every word being said. "It's... let's call it a distraction." He blinks in surprise. "Oh, it's a real threat, don't get me wrong." He rolls his eyes in a way that even Ianto, master of the art, would be proud of. "But it's not really what causes the timelines to snap."

"Are you telling me it's got nothing to do with Time unravelling?" He tilts his head, shooting Jack a questioning look, trying to keep his own frustration in check. He has been in Jack's position before, meeting his own past self, and knows just how delicate a time it can be. Still, he _needs_ to know.

"It does, indirectly." Well, that makes much sense, Jack. It either is or isn't, but not both. "It has set a sequence of events in motion, which in the original timeline will lead to you blowing up the Rift and destroying Time." He growls, his brain struggling to cope with the subtleties involved in all this. Direct cause, indirect cause, effect preceding cause.

Sometimes Time does give him a headache.

"And you think by _hiding_ in here it won't happen?"

"It will definitely make it more complicated for it to happen." Jack's voice – patient, calm, almost paternalistic – is starting to get to his nerves. The fact that Jack is probably right doesn't help either.

"But it could still happen." Meddling with time can have unexpected consequences. If he is not the one to blow the Rift, someone else may do it. "And in the mean time, my team are out there, facing goodness knows what."

A thought crosses his mind. _Unknowingly_ blowing up the Rift probably means getting caught in the explosion. He shudders. The idea is scary even knowing he would be back. Or _precisely_ because he knows he would be back. But if it is someone else in the team, instead of him...

Jack smiles, that broken smile of his that he still can't quite decipher. Slowly, Jack pushes himself off the rails and walks down the stairs, stopping barely a step away from him. Oh, great, staring contest. Whatever next?

"Trust them to do their job."

"Of course I...!" He wouldn't have brought them into Torchwood if he didn't trust them. They wouldn't have survived this long in Torchwood if they couldn't do their job properly. But...

"But?" Arguing with oneself can be so frustrating at times. It is really annoying, the way Jack seems to know what he's thinking just by looking at him. "You wish you could be out there to be the one who takes a bullet instead of them? You wish you could wrap them in cotton wool and keep them safe? You can't bear the thought of people you recruited getting hurt, or _killed_?"

He looks away. It's hard to hide from oneself. Harder than he remembers it being, actually. Maybe because most times he met himself were while he was in the Agency, and the world was much more of a black and white place in those days.

"Well, let me give you a piece of advice, Jack." He swallows. Something tells him he doesn't really want to hear this. "Something I've learnt over the last thirty years, since I was you." He tries to turn around, but Jack places a hand on his shoulder and holds him in place. "You don't have the whole picture. Acting like you know exactly what is going on will get those you care for hurt. Or _worse_."

He shakes Jack's hand away and takes a couple of steps back, anger boiling inside him.

"Stop giving me half-baked truths! I'm tired of riddles!" It's easy for Jack to talk about it all. In retrospective, good decisions are always easy, and always look like the path that should have been taken. But when one is caught in the thick of it and has nothing to go by but instincts and the present, they are never so clear cut.

"I can't tell you the whole story, you know that." Jack leans on the wall, arms crossed in front of him, biting his lips. For a moment, he almost believes that Jack is telling him as much as he can. Then he remembers just how easy it has been in the past to lie to himself.

"Like you would tell me, even if you could!" He almost spits the words.

"You know I wouldn't." There is something in the way Jack looks at him that makes any reply he might have given die in his throat. "Would you go back and warn yourself? There are plenty of things in our past we'd rather not have lived through. Would you go back and tell our past self about them?" Slowly, he looks away, reluctantly shaking his head.

"Too risky." Too many small changes, and the timelines could be altered beyond repair. "It's never easy to tell how a pebble falling can change the course of History." Jack smirks and raises an eyebrow, questioning.

"It's never just about the risk, though, is it?" It takes a moment before it clicks. There is more to it than risking the future. Would he go back and warn himself about coming dangers, and burden himself with the knowledge of things that could very well not happen just because his past self found out about them? Causality paradoxes. Always a nightmare to deal with. "Now you get it."

He turns his back to Jack. It's starting to get tiring, all this Jack being able to read him like an open book, but it is hard to keep secrets from someone who has all the advantages. With a sigh, he puts down the ice pack and flexes his fingers, the pain lessened but still there. A hand settles on his shoulder, reassuring, thumb running up and down the back of his neck.

"I just want them to be safe." He has to snort at that. "As safe as they can be, working for Torchwood."

"Then stay here." Jack takes a step closer, arms closing around him, chin settling heavy on his shoulder. "Let them deal with this." He puts his hands over Jack's, and there's a spark in the contact that he had almost forgotten. Something almost electric. "John will take care of them." There is a long, boring, timey-wimey explanation of it, something to do with the Universe trying to make sense of two creatures that should never have coexisted actually touching each other, but it doesn't really matter. "And you know John, when he gets protective."

He has to smile at that. Yes, John can be worse than a mother bear sometimes.

"I just can't sit here and do _nothing_." Jack's arms around him tighten, and there's the ghost of a kiss on his neck. "I should be helping. I could at least get in touch with Whitehall, with UNIT. Do _something_." Behind him, Jack tenses, and not in a good way.

"You are not doing nothing, Jack." A whisper in his ear, hot breath on his skin, and he can't even blame Jack for knowing exactly what buttons to press to distract him from more pressing matters. After all, he's always made an art of it. "You are giving them a fighting chance." Teeth trail on his neck. "You are making it harder for things to end up the way they will in the original timeline."

There is something about Jack's voice that speaks of the conflict between his duty at Torchwood - keeping the Universe safe and in one piece – and the determination to prevent whatever went wrong in the original timeline, to make sure the price Torchwood pay is something they can live with. There is something that speaks of loss, of disaster, of guilt. More than usual, that is.

"How bad will it be?" Barely a whisper, because he can't find the breath for more, and he's not entirely sure whether it is Jack's lips on his skin or the many heartbreaking options his mind is painting as the possible outcome that Jack is trying to prevent.

"Bad enough for you not to want to know." He shakes his head, part of him not wanting to let it go, part of him wanting nothing more than to lose himself in the comfort Jack is offering. "I'm hoping you never have to find out."

"But you will never forget it, even if the timelines change." He swallows, his brain sluggishly trying to find the proper explanation for it. "You are out of your place, the ripple will not affect you."

"I know." So much pain. So much raw, unending pain.

"That is going to get confusing." Behind him, Jack smiles, sending a puff of hot air onto his skin. "I wont' remember, but you will." A gentle bite on his earlobe. "How is Time going to handle that?"

"I hope we'll find out soon enough."


	21. John

"What exactly are we doing in a hospital?" It has to be the tenth time Gwen has asked that same question since they got in the car and he mentioned where he wanted to go. Ianto just gave him a raised eyebrow and shook his head before turning the key and setting off; Gwen, on the other hand, has been asking questions all the way. And never taking it gently when he referred her back to the standard 'the Universe will blow up to bits if I tell you, Sweet Cheeks' answer.

Some people just never get it.

"It's not just _any_ hospital," Ianto chides in while locking the SUV and putting the keys in the pocket of his coat. Lovely coat, he has to admit. Nicely cut to highlight all the right things. "Rupesh works here. We were _here_ this morning." He gives Ianto an innocent smile. "I suppose there is a reason why we are here again." Not even a question, just one of those deadpan statements Ianto does so amazingly well.

"That doctor, Rupesh, wanted to help." For reasons that Torchwood have no idea of, just yet, and not even Jack – his Jack, the one that has already lived through this sequence of events – has a clear picture of. "So we're giving him a chance." He leans on the SUV and motions Gwen and Ianto towards the A&E entrance. "You two, go and find him. Tell him we need a kid or three to try and figure out what's going on, and ask him to find us some volunteers."

"And meanwhile you will do exactly what, Captain?" Gwen's voice is full of mistrust, and it's starting to get on his nerves that no matter what he does, or how many times he proves he's got Torchwood's best interests at heart, Gwen still doesn't believe him. Well, maybe poisoning her and leaving her to die in their first encounter really _is_ a bit of a barrier for trust.

He shoots Ianto a sideways look. A warning about asking questions that shouldn't be answered. Even if this time it has not much to do with timelines snapping and a lot to do with making sure the bait for his prey play their part convincingly. Ianto places a hand on Gwen's shoulder and, after a few tense seconds where it looks like Gwen won't give in, the two of them head for A&E.

As soon as they are out of sight, he bolts for a side door, heading for the basement. With a bit of luck, that'll be where they keep morgues in this century as well, and hopefully he has managed to put this part of the puzzle together despite Jack's reticence to give him much. Rupesh had hidden motives for his interest in Torchwood – he can recognise an infiltration attempt, after the many times he used every trick in the book. Whoever is using him to infiltrate Torchwood has probably raised the stakes after the blank page was issued from Whitehall.

And who best placed to trick Jack Harkness to lower his guard than someone presenting the mighty Torchwood leader with a puzzle to solve? He's gonna have to have a word with Jack about that. Or three.

In any case, it all means he has just sent Gwen and Ianto into a trap that was originally set for Jack. And all he can do now is hope that Rupesh will try to keep them as bait for Jack. And that he will manage to get them both out alive, while making it look like he isn't at all concerned for their safety.

He stops in his tracks when a shadow moves in the intersection in front of him. The shadow of an armed man moving on the wall. He raises an eyebrow. It looks like the blank page may have already been issued, then, even earlier than he expected. And, of course, he has no idea how many of them are there – Jack never saw the group that put the bomb inside him.

Because, of course, having decent intelligence would only be helpful. Thank you, Jack. Thank you, Universe. Multiverse. Whichever.

Voices, too low to distinguish anything, but too close for comfort. Three, four, maybe five men, and a steel-coated female voice that can only be Agent Johnson. He needs her alive, just in case. Hell, he could do with keeping all of them alive, since UNIT don't seem to be in the mood to get their asses out of their high horses and get dirty doing some real work. He swallows, wondering for a moment if he's bitten more than he can chew with this one.

And he wouldn't mind a round or two of good sex with her. There's certainly a dangerous edge to her, and he has always enjoyed that in a lover.

He doubles back, looking for a quiet corner to pause and gather his thoughts. He ends up in a storage room, his back to the door, and wondering how best to approach this. With a sigh, he taps his wriststrap and connects to Ianto's phone.

"Eye Candy!" He tries to keep his voice steady and calm. "Still in A&E?" He gets a quiet 'aha' from the other side of the line. They are probably with Rupesh already. "Stay there. Do not let him take you downstairs, is that clear?" Another quiet 'aha' and the line goes dead. At least Ianto and Mrs. Williams will not get caught in the crossfire.

Crossfire? Now there's a thought. After all the time he has spent wanting to bring his other self back to here and now, how could he not think of that earlier? Raising an eyebrow, he taps a few buttons on his wriststrap, heart pounding. Jack – at least his Jack, maybe even both – will have his head for this when he finds out. He pauses, eyes closed, waiting for the tingling of air around him that will announce his visitor's arrival.

Well, maybe Jack won't find out. After all, he used to make a living out of hiding and twisting the truth, it shouldn't be much of a problem to keep this from Jack.

Two minutes, thirteen seconds later, a cloud of energy forms in front of him, and he – or rather, his younger self – steps out of it, looking startlingly happy to be here instead of... well, instead of where he just was. There is a moment of silence, an arched eyebrow, hands dusting the front of a jacket that looks as if it's just been taken from the dry cleaners', and then the dreaded question.

"What the fuck took you so fucking long?" The voice is cold and dry, and he can clearly remember the anger he felt, back when he was the man in front of him. At not being able to get back to where – when – he was supposed to be. At being trapped. At the unnerving feeling that there was somewhere else he had to be. He lets out a sigh, the urgency of everything happening outside this little room pressing down on him.

"Take it out on me later, okay?" Hands on his hips, he just stares at John – it's easier to think of him as someone else, someone other than him. It gives him less of a headache. "Right now, we've got work to do." He turns around and is about to open the door when he realises John hasn't moved. He looks over his shoulder, only to find John still standing where he appeared, arms folded in front of him.

"Right now, you owe me some explanations." John arches an eyebrow in that oh so defiant way. "And maybe a bit of a welcome party." Is he really always this obsessed with sex all the time? No wonder Ianto goes around rolling his eyes every five point two seconds, give or take a snarky remark or a silent death threat condensed in a stare. He spins around and pushes John against the shelves on one of the walls, hands fisting on John's shirt to get some leverage to keep him there. There's a look of surprise in John's face, but it is quickly replaced by a mix of snark and come-and-fuck-me. Just like he said, there's always been something about a bit of rough and tumble.

"Listen to me, for once in our lives." He swallows, remembering the many times that he's completely disregarded advice from future selves just for the sake of not doing what he is told. "Right now, time is unravelling." John snorts, shaking his head. "Trust me, you may not be feeling it yet, but you will, soon enough. It will almost kill you, just as it almost killed me." John leans forward and kisses him, all bite and heat and want, and it brings back memories of many encounters with past and future selves. He pulls back, reluctantly. Much as he'd love a bit of 'me time' - and doesn't time travelling make that fun – he's got more important things to take care of right now. "I came here to fix it, and I need your help."

John snorts again and shoots him a disbelieving look.

"You really expect me to _help_?" He nods. "Oh, come on, just because I gave Torchwood a hand with those nasties doesn't mean..." He shakes John and slams him against the shelves again.

"Drop the act." He swallows. It's hard to admit it, even now, how important certain people have become in his life. Even if admitting it is the only way he's ever going to get the help he needs right now. And it was even harder when he was John, before he saw the effect that loss had – may still have – on Jack. "I _am_ you, I _know_ you." John looks away. "I _know_ exactly how much you _care_. Despite how much you want _not to_. I know exactly what's been going through your head while you were _there_. "

The words seem to burn in his mouth. John pushes him away, but he holds his ground. There is a moment of tension, when he wonders if he could reach for a weapon in time if his other self tried something foolish. Not that he can actually _kill_ his previous self without causing a nightmare of a paradox, but there is nothing preventing John from killing him.

Great. Not even paradoxes are on his side today.

"What will happen?" John looks away, voice barely a whisper, and he has to fight the urge to tear at John's clothes and lose himself in the genuine abandonment of some time with himself – which, so far, has always proven wonderfully interesting. Closing his eyes, he lets go of John and straightens up.

"Can't give you details, you know that." John nods, almost absent-mindedly. "All I can tell you is that, in the original timeline, the Rift is blown up." John grimaces, and he has to wonder _why_ he didn't realise sooner what the impact of such an explosion would be, long term. He was probably too busy _grieving_. And people still insist that caring doesn't make you vulnerable! "On a global scale, that will unravel Time, epically bad, yada yada, need to stop it, blah blah, insert usual Time Agency speech when corrections in the timelines are required."

"And closer to home?" He gives John a wary look. John just smirks in that pretentious way of his. By the Goddesses, no wonder so many people find him irritating.

"I didn't say..."

"No, you said 'on a global scale'" John doesn't even let him finish. "Which means there is something more in it." He swears under his breath, and John just laughs at him. "I'm you, remember? I may not have your memories, but I do still know me."

He lets out a sigh. What can he tell himself? What impact would anything he says have on the timelines? He can't risk saying too much, but he can't risk John refusing to help either.

"Closer to home, people will die, John." He looks away, trying not to give too much away. "Closer to home, people will lose everything, and almost everybody, that matters to them." His voice is breaking, and it comes as a shock. He's always been good at hiding emotions. "Closer to home, people will wish they didn't have to go on living."

There is a moment of silence, of John idly kicking the floor, eyes darting around and clearly avoiding him. There is a moment of tension as he fears John will just dart off and hope for the best – he used to do that a lot, back in the day.

"Can we stop it?" He nods, hoping he looks more convinced about it than he really is. "I don't mean time unravelling, I'm sure we can handle that, since we know what triggers it. I mean everything else." He swallows and nods again.

"Time is in flux right now." John's smile returns, even brighter than before. "It's possible we may be able to prevent the timelines from snapping, _and_ nudge them in the right direction so that certain things don't happen. Preferably _without_ breaking them again."

John takes a couple of steps towards him and places a hand on his chest, heat seeping through the material onto his skin. A kiss, barely a brush of lips that promises oh so much more, and the fuck-me flare that appears every time he meets himself. For a second, he wishes he could just go with it, lean into the touch and the need and forget the world outside.

Thankfully, John breaks the kiss barely a moment later.

"You still owe me an explanation about _why_ you didn't get me out of there sooner." He looks away, memories rushing back in, and nods. There is a lot he would love to explain to his other self, but not right now. "What do you need me to do?"


	22. Ianto

Gwen shoots him a questioning look as he slides the phone back into his coat pocket. He shakes his head, and luckily she doesn't push it.

"Seriously, people, what _are_ you playing at?" Rupesh's voice has an edge of annoyance to it, and he can't blame him for it. But, hey, this is Torchwood, Rupesh should get used to things like this if he really wants to join. "First you send me away with some half-baked excuse that I would be needed here, and now you come after me and expect me to hand you some kids so you can figure this one out?"

Gwen flashes a smile and shrugs. He just stays in the background, eyes on the doctor. Something tells him there is more to this – Rupesh, the hospital, John insisting on coming here _now_ barely hours after their last visit – than is obvious, and that is bothering him. The way John jumped when the CCTV showed Rupesh on the Plass, and how he insisted neither Jack should be allowed to leave the Hub... It's frustrating, not being able to put his finger on it when he _knows_ something is afoot.

And he's doing a Sherlock Holmes impersonation now. Whatever next? He shakes his head, trying to push thoughts aside. He's got more pressing matters to take care of right now.

"We are just trying to get to the bottom of this, Rupesh." Ah, Gwen's conciliatory tone. "It's our job." Rupesh gives her a blank look that could mean any number of things. "It's what we do, investigate the unexplained."

"Yet you haven't shown the slightest interest in the bodies that have been disappearing recently." Rupesh folds his arms in front of him, defensive. "If that is not unexplained, you tell me." Gwen looks over her shoulder and gestures at him to join in. He pushes himself away from the wall he has been leaning on and takes a couple of steps until he is side by side with her.

"Kids all over the world are speaking in unison." He keeps his voice low – there is no need for every concerned parent around them to actually hear this. "Something is obviously trying to control the children all over the planet, and _you_ are more concerned with three dead bodies in Cardiff?" It comes out a bit sharper than he intended it to, but it seems to have an effect on the doctor.

"It may be related." Rupesh stares at him, defiant. "There is a body downstairs right now. If it hasn't disappeared like the others, that is." He takes a deep breath. Bodies going missing, it could be serious. At any other time, he'll be all over it. "Mr Chow Lee Jee, Chinese again. He came in with a nosebleed that wouldn't stop." But right now... kids being remote controlled, all at once, in some way that not even Jack – his Jack, that is – has seen before. Timelines about to snap because the Rift may be blown up. "Next thing you know, it's been diagnosed as a brain haemorrhage. He died shortly after." Somehow, right now, it doesn't seem to be such a pressing matter. "You should have a look."

He shakes his head. Rupesh opens his mouth to say something, but thinks better of it and closes it again. John's warning echoes in his head. Stay upstairs. Don't let Rupesh drag you downstairs. When it all clicks in his head, it feels like the wind has been knocked out of him.

Rupesh is part of it. Part of... whatever, whoever will – may – cause the Rift to blow up, cause Jack to unknowingly blow the bloody Rift up. All of Rupesh's interest in Torchwood, his reluctance to let go, his almost disappointed face when _they_ showed up. As if Rupesh had been expecting someone else. He blinks. The Rift was never the target. Jack is. The rest is just a side effect, an unexpected consequence.

With no actual _evidence_ to support it, it sounds like a wild theory.

But it fits.

But _why_? Why would anybody want Jack dead? He snorts at the thought. In all honesty, Jack has had time enough to rub a lot of people the wrong way. But, then again, most of the people with access to the resources to somehow stick a bomb onto Jack without Jack noticing probably _know_ that Jack can't die. Probably know about Torchwood, and probably know how important Torchwood and what they do is in a crisis like this. He swallows, and tries to keep a calm face, a calm voice.

"Right now, we need to figure out what is going on with the children." Rupesh lets out an annoyed sigh. "The sooner we find out what is affecting them, the sooner we can look into your disappearing bodies." His phone rings again. He turns around, fishing the phone out of his pocket, and shoots Gwen a warning look. "Stay here." She nods. He can only hope she'll play ball. "Yes?"

"Ianto!" Jack, although he's not sure exactly which one. It's hard to tell them apart going just by the voice. "I think I found something. Where are you?"

"In A&E." He keeps his voice low. Catches himself biting his lip. Takes a deep breath and tries to calm down. Should he tell Jack about his suspicions?

"Again?" There's a hint of a smile in Jack's voice. His Jack it is, then. "Not recruiting that handsome doctor, are you?" He purses his lips. It makes no sense to worry Jack about this yet. Not while Jack – both of them, actually – are stuck in the Hub and – hopefully – away from this danger.

"Ahm... no. Not if I get a say in it." He can almost _hear_ Jack's thoughts going around.

"Then what are you doing in there?"

"John's suggestion." Jack snorts. "And, he's right, we need a kid or two. Find out what is affecting them." Stay focused.

"I have an idea about it. Something that John said earlier got me thinking." A pause. An uneasy pause at that. "So I think it's a transmission, a pulse, a broadcast."

"Like the Mosquito alarm – the one that only kids can hear." It would make sense. They have come across things like that before. Mind control that only affected those of A+ blood type, ghostly voices that only members of a family could hear.

"Something like that, yeah." Which means they will have to find exactly what is it before they can start thinking of ways to stop it. "Something unique to prepubescents."

"Maybe testosterone interferes with the signal, and oestrogen..."

A hand on his shoulder startles him. He turns around to find Gwen, mouthing a silent 'is it Jack?' while pointing to the phone. He nods. She grabs him and pulls him along the corridor and into one of the staff rooms, leaving a puzzled Rupesh behind him. When she locks the door behind her, he puts the phone on speaker.

"Jack, it's Gwen. Have you got access to the computers?" Jack doesn't reply. He frowns. He knows he will have to deal with Jack's reaction to him triggering the lockdown at some point. He knows Jack won't bring it up while danger is still at their doorstep.

"Yeah, thank you for the lockdown, by the way." So much for not bringing it up. "Who programmed that?"

"It was Tosh. Well, she started it. I finished it after..." He can't get himself to mention it. It still hurts to think Tosh is gone. It even hurts to think that Owen will not be gracing the Hub with his snarkiness anymore.

"Anyway. I just had a thought." Gwen places a hand on his shoulder, and gives him a comforting look, dragging the conversation back onto the matters at hand. He nods and pushes the thoughts away. "I think we are missing the bleedin' obvious here." He snorts. It wouldn't be the first time. Torchwood may be Torchwood, but they are only human. "Could you check the net, flick through some of the videos of the children acting weird this morning?"

There's the clicking of a keyboard, and then the eerie sound of children chanting 'we are coming' fills the room.

"London, Manchester, York..." Jack's voice is tense. "All at the same time, same words. Perfect unison." He swallows, wondering what it is that Gwen is on to here.

"Go global."

"Taiwan... China... Mexico..." Same words everywhere.

"I thought so." Gwen gives her a pointed look and a quiet smile. "Rhys gave me the idea, earlier." He finds it very hard to not smile at that. "I called him to apologise for being, yet again, buried in work when I promised I would..." A pause, a shadow of annoyance on her face. "Never mind." Gwen shakes her head, and he knows what Gwen is not saying. He's had plenty of abandoned plans because Torchwood doesn't know the meaning of 'time off', 'holiday', 'personal time' or even 'outside of working hours'. "He mentioned the timing of the children stopping and chanting seemed to be in synch with the UK."

"Of course!" How did they miss that? "Rush hour, then morning break." Gwen nods at him. "And all the kids are speaking _English_."

"Well, I supposed if you scanned Earth from the outside, in this day an age, you'd register English as the dominant language." Jack taps a few more keys, and the chanting voice in the background dies off.

"Actually, that would be Chinese. Well, Mandarin." Gwen raises an eyebrow and looks at him as if he were a walking encyclopaedia showing off. "There's about a billion people speaking Mandarin, that's three times more than English."

"So, timed around Britain. And in English." Jack's voice is full of dread now. As if he had just noticed something _else_. "Somebody is looking right at us?"

"That is exactly what Rhys said." Gwen's pride in her husband is heartwarming.

"Well, thank Mr. Williams when you see him." Jack sounds a bit bitter, but Gwen doesn't seem to notice. "How does that help us?"

"Well, think of what John said. Old enemies. Whoever they are, they are focusing on Britain." Yet another pause. "They must have been here before, they should be on record. At least on our records." Exasperated sigh from Jack.

"Gwen, I can tell you, nobody in the last hundred and fifty years has controlled children like that."

"I went through the Archives." Gwen stares at him. "No mention of anything like this." Something is bothering him, scratching at the back of his mind. Something he should have noticed. "Jack, you said it could be a transmission?" There is a reluctant 'aha' from Jack. "Could you narrow down the frequency?"

"I think so."

"Right, get on to it, get the other Jack to help you if you have to, but we need that data." Gwen gives him a confused look, but he's not ready to share this theory just yet.

"What are you thinking?" Something in Jack's voice tells him Jack may know more than he is letting on. Bloody Torchwood and its secrets.

"Nothing just yet." He can only hope Jack won't call his bluff.

"What are you planning on doing while I'm stuck in here?" He tries to ignore the annoyance on Jack's voice.

"First, I'm going to find out exactly what John is up to." He gestures at Gwen, who unlocks the door. "Once we know what frequency this transmission is used, we can look for a way to block it."

"That would stop the mass panic." Jack is still typing on the other side of the phone. "And then we can concentrate on finding out what is going on." He nods.

"Exactly. We'll be back as soon as we can." He turns the speaker off and puts the phone to his ear again. Gwen opens the door and leaves the room. "We'll let you know what we find out."

"Ianto." He's about to hang up, but Jack's voice stops him in his tracks. "Be careful."

"I always am." He hangs up and follows Gwen, considering whether to tell her about his suspicions, but deciding against it.

Now, if only they could find John and get some answers from him...


	23. Jack: future

There's a ball of lead in the pit of his stomach as he strains his ears to pick up Jack's conversation with Ianto and Gwen. Ianto sounds suspicious, but nothing in the words being exchanged gives away exactly _what_ may be going through that brain of his. Jack is frowning, and he can tell something just clicked in his head. He bites his lips, not sure whether to wish it will be enough to keep everybody alive or hope it won't be too much for the timelines to bear. Or both.

Jack cuts the call, and some furious tapping ensues. With a sigh, he crosses the Hub towards the workstation Jack is sitting at, and leans on the railings. Jack shoots him a warning glare.

"I'd stay away, if I were you." He arches an eyebrow and doesn't move. "If I am right, and you didn't tell me about this, I'm gonna have your head for it." Jack concentrates on the screens in front of him again. "Gwen is right, it is centred on Britain. That alone should have tipped me off." Jack's hands hover on the keyboard, shaking. He resists the urge to say something along the lines of 'yeah, it should've, but it didn't, stop the blaming game', but he knows it wouldn't make any difference.

"What are you thinking?" He puts on his most innocent almost-smile, very much aware of the tension in Jack's body, of the threat of violence in the air. "Come on, Jack, I'm the one that cannot answer questions, not you." Jack ignores him, eyes still glued to the computer. He leans forward and steals a glance at the data on the screen. Frequency analysis around the time that the kids were affected. He lets out a sigh. Jack seems to be on track to the 456. Silence gets even tenser when the analysis completes.

"I'm thinking, you should have told me, that's what I'm thinking!" Jack stands up, almost kicking the chair, and grabs him by the shirt, pushing him against the railings. "No wonder you blew the Hub up, if _they_ have returned!" Jack is seething with anger. Rightful anger at that. "There are people too concerned with keeping their own record clean to actually _care_ that we could help!"

Jack shakes him, frustration surfacing, and something seems to break inside him. He swallows, trapped between agreeing with Jack and snapping back. Funny how he has spent the last thirty years blaming himself, despite the many times John trying to convince him it _wasn't_ his fault, but when this other self starts blaming him, he feels the need to defend himself.

"I _couldn't_ give you any more than we did." He slaps Jack's hand away. "You know the tightrope we are walking, Jack. We've been there more than once." Jack doesn't move, but looks away, hands balled into fists. "You were there, you felt it too. A wrong word and we could make it much worse."

"That is what will happen, isn't it?" He struggles not to nod, not to give Jack anything. He can feel the timelines tensing around him, almost crushing. "It's the same frequency, it _has to be_ the 456." Jack takes a couple of steps away and punches the wall. He winces – can't be good for the bones, all that punching hard stuff. "After what they... after what I..."

Jack collapses on the sofa, face hidden behind his hands, half-muttered words that speak of guilt and pain. He almost gets kicked when he tries to get closer.

"That's why I came back." There is a moment of tense silence, timelines still pressing around him, the feeling almost suffocating. Eventually Jack looks up, and he has to wonder if John's brilliant idea of keeping them away from trouble, locked in the Hub, won't end up backfiring. Tempers are running high - he was never good at being confined, but being stuck with another version of himself is definitely not making it easier for either of them.

"I thought you were here because of the bloody timelines." So much bitterness in the words. So much pain. So much guilt. There are many things he is not proud of in his past, there are many things part of him would love to erase from History, but 1965 – the whole year, pretty much – is high in that list. He still remembers the shock when he found out that the 456 were back. As if it were yesterday.

"Not only the timelines." Barely a whisper, because that is all he can manage right now. Jack shoots him a questioning look. "We wouldn't be here if it weren't because of them, I'll give you that." Jack snorts. "But, despite everything I've been trying to convince myself of, I can't just stand by and let it all happen again." He holds Jack's gaze despite how much he want to run away and hide.

"Well, you've been doing a good job at it!" Eventually it's Jack who looks away, leaning back on the sofa, eyes lost in the ceiling.

"Christ, Jack, you can be so difficult sometimes." It's hard not to hit back. After all, he is here, and he is trying to fix what he messed up the first time around. He's trying to save the Universe, Torchwood, Ianto, Gwen, Jack, _everybody_. Part of him wishes he could tell Jack everything that is to come, put things into perspective. But the timelines wouldn't stand it. And, to be perfectly honest, it defies the point of preventing it from happening if he burdens Jack with the knowledge of what _could_ happen.

"Pot. Kettle. Black." There is a bit less hostility in Jack's voice. He nods – it would be unfair not to admit it. "I warned them. I told them the 456 would be back, even if we paid them off." He can't find words that could be of any comfort right now. "What I did... All for nothing." He crouches down in front of Jack, a hand on Jack's knee.

"No." Jack stubbornly refuses to look at him. "Forty years ago, you had no leverage to do anything different." Jack snorts.

"I don't think I had enough of a conscience to _think_ that I should have done different, either." Too much of a confession, even to himself. But he has to admit 1965 wasn't a particularly good year. If anything, it was a low point in his life. "And not much has changed."

"Oh, that's where you are wrong, Jack." He pats Jack thigh and stands up, offering him a hand. Reluctantly, Jack takes it and gets back on his feet. "You are head of Torchwood now." Jack raises an eyebrow. "You answer to nobody." Well. Most of the time.

"Whitehall can still countermand me." He nods and gives Jack a small smile.

"Royal decree, remember? Play that card. Bring whoever you need into the mix. Level the playfield." Jack shakes his head.

"Even if it worked, I need manpower." Jack grimaces. "And UNIT don't seem willing to join the party." Well, UNIT never are. All that bureaucracy and overlapping chains of command must come at a price. It's one of the reasons Torchwood was never incorporated or absorbed into UNIT. Not responsive enough when things have to be dealt with quickly.

"They never are." Jack nods, absent-mindedly. "And you are right, it will be too late if you wait for the UN to react."

"What have you got in mind?"

"Well, UNIT are still _British_ Army." Jack's face changes when it all finally clicks. Theoretically, the Crown is still head of the Army, although the power normally sits with Government.

"That'd be a first, making that hold." He smiles, and Jack almost smiles back. "I suppose I could try it, though." Jack brings out his mobile and starts walking towards his office, stern voice demanding to speak with someone up the food chain.

Around him, the timelines seem to relax, but he has been through too many almost-breaking points by now to actually take it as a good sign. With Jack being kept away from Rupesh, chances are the Hub won't be blown up, but this is all still too far away from over.


	24. John

Something stirs inside him at the sight of Agent Johnson tied to a chair and struggling to free herself. The murderous look in her face only adds to the appeal, and the adrenaline still coursing through his system after the fight heightens every feeling, every sensation. By the Goddesses, how he's missed this! The chase, the capture, the danger, the kill. Metaphorical kill, that is. Not a good idea to go around killing people involved in turning points in History. Hard to know how History – and Time – will react to that.

"Now, Agent Johnson, for the last time." He shrugs, causing one of the knives on his sleeve to fall to his hand. "I don't care where your orders come from. I can guarantee my boss outranks yours."

She almost breaks into a defiant laugh, as if she weren't at all concerned about how things are turning out. As if she hadn't noticed the fact that whatever advantage she might have had has been lost in the last five minutes, since he and John cornered her and her men in the corridor and proceeded to quietly – well, almost – take them down. Never underestimate stun grenades. Particularly not the fifty-first century version thereof.

"I doubt that." She shakes her head, blowing rebel strands of hair away from her face. He crouches in front of her, running the tip of the knife along her thigh. Behind her, John is leaning on the wall of the morgue, keeping an eye on the five knocked out men, hand on the hilt of his sword. Not that either of them has any reason to doubt the ties binding the goons, but one can never be too careful when outnumbered. Overconfidence is a dangerous thing.

Agent Johnson tries to throw a kick at him, but her ankles are securely tied to the chair. Like he said, never underestimate the enemy.

"Don't give me that, love." She seethes with anger, hands twisting behind her, joints cracking in an almost alarming fashion. "I know exactly why you are here." She just gives him a blank look. He's got to give it to her, she is good at poker face. "I know exactly what your orders are, and where they came from."

It takes a while before she settles down again, but he knows any pretence of calm is barely that. She is dangerous. The kind of dangerous he would love to bring to his bed, the kind of dangerous he would enjoy fighting for control with. But right now, there are other things that demand his attention. And besides, it may start getting a bit crowded in his bed if he brings her into the mix. And it wouldn't be good to lose a lover to gain another one.

"Who the Hell are you?" She almost spits the words.

"Me?" He flashes her a smile and runs the flat side of the knife down the side of her face. She doesn't even flinch. Under other circumstances, he would be enjoying this much more than he is right now. If all this bloody saving the Universe keeps getting in the way, he'll have to quit and go back to enjoying life. "Just Torchwood." Only he knows he won't. Not now, anyway.

"Torchwood?" It takes her a beat to react. "Never heard of them." Something in her voice gives her away. She's lying. "Who are they?"

"Oh, I know you have, love." She growls, baring her teeth and struggling against her bonds again. Ah, the things he could do to her, if only he had the time. "Whitehall sent you here to destroy them." She shakes her head, defiant. John takes a few steps towards her and places his hands on her shoulders, fingers trailing up and down her exposed windpipe. "I bet they didn't even tell you _why_."

A pause, and she almost looks away, but catches herself on time.

"I don't need to know why. I just follow orders." He looks past her, at John, who seems to be fidgeting more than usual tonight. Maybe it's just the relief of being back, of being here again. Maybe there's more to it, but he just doesn't have the time for whatever it is right now. He'll find out soon enough, one way or another.

"Well, you may want to start thinking for yourself before you do." She shoots him yet another murderous look that doesn't even soften a bit when John's fingers tighten around her throat. "Otherwise, the whole Universe will pay the price of your blind loyalty."

She doesn't even _blink_. By the Goddesses, this is going to be _hard_.

"And I suppose you expect me to take your word for all of this and just help _you_ out with whatever crazy scheme you have in mind?" This time she laughs. Out loud. As relaxed as if she were the one that had them tied up.

Before he has a chance to reply, she tenses for a second and collapses, head lolling forward. It takes him a moment to realise John's holding one of his favourite toys in one hand. A stun ring. As effective as a stun gun, barely the size of a penny, and not the kind of jewellery one wants to fall asleep wearing, just in case. Although the lower settings can be quite interesting. He shoots John a glare, but his evil twin just takes a mock bow and puts the ring away, back in the depths of the hidden pockets of his jacket.

"We need her!" He tries to keep his voice calm, but it's hard not to lose his temper. Is this what it used to be like, dealing with him? No wonder there is a price on his head in more places than he can remember if he is ready to shoot himself despite the consequences.

"No, we don't." John smirks, that annoying know-it-all smile that means John is definitely planning something, even if he can't quite figure out why yet. "Well, you might." Thanks for the concession, John. "But I don't think she was gonna cooperate any time soon." He looks down to Johnson's limp body, and he has to admit John has a point. "And, as far as I know, the clock is ticking."

"So, you just decided to knock her out?" John rolls his eyes and takes a mock bow

"Yep." John _smiles_ , and he feels tempted to cross the distance between them and punch him. Repeatedly. Either that or push him against the wall and just shag the living lights out of him. "Now you can take her and her cronies back to the Palace under the Pavement, lock them up, and forget about them for the time being."

"You seem to be in a hurry to get out of here." Not even a question, because he has no doubt about it now. John is twitchy, almost as if he were the one that were working against the clock, rather than Torchwood. He holds John's gaze. Not that he expects to win a staring contest – he knows exactly how stubborn he can be.

"Got things to do."

"What _things_?" His temper is running short. Slowly, deliberately, he puts the knife still in his hand back in its place, deep in the lining of his jacket. Keeping his hands away from guns and sword is slightly more complicated. "What on the bloody Universe could be more important than _this_?"

"None of your business." John's voice is razor sharp, and there is an edge of tension in it.

"Well, actually it is, you know?" He sighs. Has he really always been this annoying? "I'm you and all that. Consequences will fall on me as well." John rolls his eyes in a great impersonation of Ianto, and opens his mouth to say something. Then closes it again with a headshake that seems to talk about defeat, about the need to do _something_ , _anything_. There is a tense silence. Seconds tick by and they just stare at each other, that kind of silent defiance that neither of them dares break.

"Lives depend on it." He turns around, unable to stare at John any longer. A dangerous thing, in a way, turning his back to his other self, but it may just make the difference between John – and thus him – surviving or dying a _very painful_ death.

"Lives depend on _this_ , John, in case you hadn't noticed." The whole Universe, to be precise. Including one Ianto Jones, whom he would much rather keep alive. And he is pretty sure John would agree on that point, given the _very stupid_ things he – they - did back when the Garg'kats arrived and getting into Ianto's bed started with 'keeping Ianto alive'.

And let's not go into the consequences that everything that may still happen could have on Jack.

"You got it covered, apparently." He snorts, not entirely sure where to start when it comes to pointing out everything they _don't_ have under control. "And something tells me if I stick around, Jack will have your head. Or mine. Possibly both, if he can." Point. He pulls a face. Good point, actually. But still. "And that wouldn't be pretty."

"What the fuck is so important to leave in the middle of this mess without even an explanation?" The whole conversation is starting to remind him of arguments he's had in the past with his other selves. Only they never used to happen when he was the _future_ self in the equation. Or rather, he did his best to forget that side of those meetings.

"Call it a question of honour." John swallows, trying to push away the memories that surround the last time he used those words before they take hold. Because the last thing he needs now is to get caught in another guilt trip about Gray and what that bastard managed to make him do. "Yet again."

Then it clicks. What John is trying to do. Why John's eyes lit up at the mention of timelines in flux. Why John is itching to get away form here – from now – and where – or rather when – he'll be heading as soon as possible. So obvious. How could he miss it?

"Oh, no. No, no, no. No, you most certainly do _not_ go back then!" Much as he would love to go back, warn Jack of Gray's plans and make sure that everybody made it out of those crazy days alive and in one piece – and, if possible, without being buried alive for two millennia – he is not entirely sure the timelines could take it. His head spins with possibilities. Could he – his other self, that is – pull it off? Or would it only make matters worse? He swallows. Shivers. Closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, not daring to hope.

"What's the fucking difference between now and then?" He tenses, expecting the blow, the fight that never comes. "You are playing with the timelines, it's not any less reckless than what I have in mind." He arches an eyebrow and turns to face John again. He catches John's grimace before his other self has a chance to hide it again. "And besides, look at the bright side, if I can pull this off..." Guilt seeps through John's voice. _Guilt_. Fucking _guilt_. By the Goddesses, he definitely _is_ turning into a world saviour. "If I manage to pull this off, it may help _you_ and _your_ bloody problems."

"Yeah." He lets out an exasperated sigh. "And if you manage to mess it all up, you may snap the timelines. Again." Although, he has to say, it wouldn't hurt to bring Torchwood back to its original numbers. They were short-staffed enough as they were, back then.

"I'll fix what I break." He has to laugh. Out loud. That is something he's never been exactly good at.

"You could make things worse. Much worse." Tense silence. "If anything happens to _them_..." He leaves the threat in the air. He learnt a long time ago that he – any version thereof – does not react well to defined threats.

"Well, slap me if I do fuck it up royally." He snorts. "It's not like you have to go far to catch me." John taps a few buttons on his wriststrap. "And do me a favour, catch the fucking ripple. The last thing I want is double timelines in my head after things change." He nods, remembering his last experience with changing timelines. The woman he spent the after-victory party with – all blonde curls and sharp tongue and more attitude than is healthy – had been worth the headaches he had to put up with until his brain caught up with Time and eventually managed to cope with conflicting memories.

John taps one more button, and a cloud of energy forms around him. Before he can even nod, John is gone.

At least he won't have to explain that one to Jack.


	25. Jack: present

"What the..." He never gets to finish the question as John walks through the garage door, carrying a dark haired woman dressed in black fatigues over his shoulders. John pointedly ignores him and heads for the lower levels of the Hub. He shoots Jack a questioning look, but Jack simply shrugs in that so annoying 'do not ask me' way. He is definitely starting to get _very_ tired of the whole keeping him in the dark.

With a sigh, he bolts after John, following the footsteps on the concrete floors. Echoes reverberate in the corridors, guiding him. At least John is not trying to keep this – whatever this is – private. He catches up with John in the Vaults, two levels down, just as the door of one of the cells locks into place. At least John had the sense of not putting her in a cell next to the Weevils.

"Who is she?" John ignores him again, just keeps staring at the glass. He grabs John by the jacket, roughly turning him around. John's arms come up, the metallic flash of a knife in one hand, lips pressed together in a determined line. There is a moment of tension, of unspoken threats, of instincts kicking in before thought can rein them in – dangerous as that may be, it has kept them both alive more than once.

"Agent Johnson." After a beat, John relaxes and lets his hands fall and pulls a face, as if expecting the timelines to snap or at least bend around him. The knife disappears without a trace. Tension seeps away. "One of Whitehall's loyal pups." On the other side of the see-through glass, the woman is lying on the concrete step, unnaturally still. "Don't worry, she's alive." John grimaces again. "I had to stun her." He shoots John a glare. "She wouldn't cooperate, what the Hell did you want me to do?" Good question. "I tried pulling rank, but the whole 'my boss is bigger than your boss' didn't seem to have any effect on her."

He swallows. Things always get complicated when Whitehall gets involved. Mostly because nobody in Government ever seems to have the slightest clue about what Torchwood do, the problems they face or the meaning of life and death.

How on Earth the country gets run is anybody's guess.

"What's she got to do with all this?" John shrugs and takes a couple of steps closer to him, a hand settling on his chest. So, John is definitely hiding something. Surprise, surprise. "Come on, John, you don't expect me to believe you brought her here just because she happened to cross your path, do you?" John snort-giggles in a gesture that reminds him of Ianto and holds his gaze, defiant.

"Well, _yeah_." He glares at John, but it doesn't seem to have any effect. He has to wonder if it ever _did_ have any effect on John, the man who could shake just about anything off. "Technically, that's what happened." Never a good sign if John has to resort to technicalities to get himself off the hook. "And you should know better than asking, Jack. You know there are things I cannot tell you."

"But you can tell me who she is." John arches an eyebrow and spreads his arms, fingers flexing in the air. Feeling, as if expecting Time to tingle around him. He rolls his eyes. He doesn't have _time_ for theatricals.

"Apparently so." John tucks his thumbs on the gun belt and almost stands on tiptoe. "And there are five more goons where she came from. Whole welcoming party, they had organised." John swings back and forth, transferring his weight from the heels to the balls of his feet. "Can't beat a well armed party. Well, I obviously did, but..."

"I suppose I can always find out exactly how she ties into all this mess." John ignores the interruption and simply stares at him for a long moment with an undecipherable smile. Great. Everybody seems to have been taking lessons from Ianto on how to do just that.

"I think you know where she fits." A heartbeat. Two. Three. And he finds himself nodding. Doesn't take a genius to put it all together. If the 456 really have returned, a lot of people in Whitehall will be way too concerned with hiding the past to actually care that maybe, just maybe, Torchwood may be able to help.

"I have an idea, yeah." Betrayed by those he swore to serve, or near enough. It is enough to make his stomach turn. No wonder the Hub ended – will end, no, could end – up blown to smithereens; however it was done, he would not have seen it coming. Would not have been _expecting_ it. Would not have _wanted_ to believe it. Even with all the evidence in front of him, he is finding it hard to convince himself that yes, the woman in the cell was sent to kill him.

Probably Ianto and Gwen as well.

He swallows. Is that why Jack looks so beaten, so _lost_? The whole world seems to stop for a moment, possibilities racing through his mind. Shaking his head, he pushes the thoughts away. There are some things he is better off not knowing. Although it may be too late for that now.

"What has Jack been telling you?" John turns around and faces the glass wall. Something is getting under John's skin, even if he can't quite place it yet. And John is _definitely_ hiding something. _Everybody_ seems to be hiding something.

Just another day at Torchwood.

"Jack? Nothing." He pauses for a second. "Ianto and Gwen, on the other hand, put together a few things and gave me a lot to think about." John smiles, looking all proud mother hen. Oh, dear. Whatever happened to the rogue who couldn't see anything but a mark in every person he met? "After that, it wasn't hard to figure out exactly what is going on."

John frowns and looks about to ask something , but seems to think better of it and walks past him towards the door. Steps stop after barely half a dozen. He doesn't turn around.

"Just make sure things don't play out like they will." He nods, even though he knows John is not looking at him. "There are certain things I would rather not live through again."

It takes a while before he feels ready to head back upstairs. Well, in fact, it takes a long while before the sound of arguments turning dangerously close to murder drifting from the main area of the Hub forces him to put everything in his mind aside and head upstairs.

Ianto and Gwen are back, and he wouldn't want to be in the receiving end of their anger. Gwen is furious, voice raised and sharp words being thrown at John for leaving them behind, for taking the car with him, for leaving them to explain five knocked out black ops they didn't have a clue about in the basement of the hospital. Some of the anger probably still has something to do with paralysing lip gloss.

Ianto, in the mean time, is hanging his coat – a very sexy tailored number – and heading for the coffee machine, but he can tell Ianto _is_ angry under the apparent calm. And everybody knows it is the quiet ones that one should worry about. Ianto will have his revenge, make his point and win his battle in a manner and at a time convenient only to Ianto Jones.

And probably John will thoroughly enjoy it.

He claps his hands a couple of times, and silence falls. He catches everybody's eyes just for a moment, and gets a silent acknowledgement nod. The whole room seems to be holding its breath for a long, tense minute, before everybody settles down.

"Gwen, what happened to Johnson's men?" She gives her a blank look. "The black ops at the hospital."

"Well, we couldn't bring them here." She gives John a pointed look that adds the missing 'because _somebody_ stole _our_ vehicle'. "So I called Andy. Told him to keep them in as long as possible, he promised to delay the paperwork as best as he can to buy us some time. But once they are in the system, goodness knows who will show up to bail them out." Well, never let it be said that Cardiff finest never lent a hand to Torchwood. "I thought we can always pick them up from the station if we have to, and at least this way we know where they are." He nods to Gwen as she falls on her chair, placing her bag – as usual – on her keyboard, then hastily retrieving it when the computer starts beeping.

"Ianto!" Ianto raises an eyebrow from behind the coffee machine. "When you are done with the much needed coffee magic, go back to the Archives. Find _everything_ related to the 456." Ianto raises a second eyebrow. "1965, if it is filed correctly." Ianto murmurs something that sounds close enough to 'if only'. "John will have decaf, by the way." That puts a hint of a smile on Ianto's lips, and makes John launch into a string of protests that take a while to die off.

"Who are these 456?" Gwen stashes her jacket in a drawer and kicks it closed, eyes fixed on him. He pulls a face, wondering how much to tell, how much to keep to himself – and his other self and John, of course. "Are they the ones controlling the kids?"

"That's what we called them, the 456." Gwen leans back on her chair, arms crossed in front of her. John wisely moves away from her and towards _his_ office. He shoots John a warning glare that goes unnoticed. "After the frequency they used to transmit, to communicate." He lets out a sigh, wondering why it didn't occur to him to keep an eye on the frequency, after what happened. "I ran an analysis on the data at the time the children stopped this morning, then again when they started talking in unison." He swallows. "It is the same frequency. It has to be them."

"Or nasties with the same transmitter." Yes, John, thanks for the pointless interruption. Gwen shoots John an annoyed look, but John – as usual – just shrugs it off. Like water off a duck's back. Certain things never change.

"Have they ever controlled children like that?"

"No." A pause. Why does he always end up caught up in the middle, between giving his team too much information and forcing them to see the darkest side of Captain Harkness, and not giving them as much as they need to survive? "But their last visit was... brief." He tries to keep a straight face. He knows Ianto will ask questions later.

"How brief?" Gwen, on the other hand, will never learn to drop the matter when politely hinted to do so. Like he said, certain things never change.

"Let's just say..." He pauses for a second, looking for the words. How can he explain he sacrificed thirteen children to save the planet? It was the only decision he could make at the time, despite knowing it would set a precedent and eventually come back to bite them. But how can he explain it to Gwen, of all people? Gwen, who still sees the world in blacks and whites and struggles to accept even the existence, let alone the necessity, of greys? "Let's just say they arrived, they threatened, they got what they wanted, they left."

"So much for not negotiating with aliens." Across the room, Jack and John grimace. He probably does too. "And what did they want?" The drops of water falling onto the pool at the bottom of the water tower feel like explosions in the tense silence that falls on the room again. He looks away, unable to hold Gwen's inquisitive look. "What?"

"Children, Gwen." The words taste bitter in his mouth. "They wanted children."


	26. Ianto

Gwen's shocked face doesn't exactly come as a surprise. Neither does Jack's explanation – Jack's confession. He always knew Jack carries more dark secrets on his shoulders than any person ever should. Jack does his best to keep those around him away from that darkness, but when it surfaces, it can be devastating.

"Children?" Gwen does that disbelieving snort that has somehow become a trademark gesture. "Jack, tell me you didn't." Silence. He could cut the tension in the air. John opens his mouth to say something but Jack – John's own Jack – places a hand on his shoulder, and John falls silent again. Jack – his Jack – just holds Gwen's eyes, unflinching. "You can't have..."

"Gwen." She ignores him, still staring open-mouthed at Jack. He trades a look with John, who looks ready to smack her until she sees reason, and shakes his head. John rolls his eyes but eventually takes a couple of steps back, retreating away from the line of fire. "Gwen." She carries on babbling, throwing questions and reproaches mixed together at Jack. "Gwen!" She turns towards him, almost as if she had just noticed he is here, a puzzled look in her face.

"Don't tell me you..." Gwen looks lost for words. "You can't possibly..." There is a moment of silence, of tension, and it wouldn't surprise him if Gwen just walked out and never came back. Some things are hard to stomach, but she seems to take everything personally. "Ianto, you can't just justify _everything_ he does!"

"I don't have to." He keeps his voice down, not wanting to get into an argument right now. There are certain things Gwen and he will always disagree about. How coffee should be drunk and what Jack should be forgiven for doing are just two of them.

"What do you mean you don't have to?" She stands up, defiant, and stares at him. Still questioning and reproaching at the same time. This is starting to get tiring. One more rerun of this conversation and he really might snap and throw a couple of unkind truths her way.

"He is our leader." The words bring back echoes of other times, of similar discussions. "He is the one that has to make the hard decisions." Gwen still doesn't get it. "The least I can do is be grateful he is willing to carry that weight on his conscience so that _we_ don't have to." John nods approvingly. Jack – his Jack – beams at him, almost looking proud, as if the fact that he can stand by him even in the darkest moments still came as a surprise. Jack – John's Jack – gives him a smile. The first _genuine_ smile he's seen from this broken Jack.

"But... Children!"

"I'm sure there was a good reason." Jack grimaces. Both of them do, actually. "Tell me, Gwen, a child or the whole planet, what would _you_ decide?" She hesitates. Shakes her head. Brings a hand up to cover her mouth, shock and comprehension suddenly dawning on her.

"I couldn't..." She falls back on her chair. "I couldn't... How can anybody make that choice?" John opens his mouth to speak, but he shakes his head, and, once again, John takes the hint. Which comes a bit of a surprise in and of itself. "How could anyone?"

"Sometimes the choice has to be made." She tilts her head, long hair covering her face. Maybe this time it will really sink, and there will not be a next time. But he knows it won't happen. He could never understand it, how people could do despicable things and live with themselves. Not until he found himself in that situation. Not until it was him who had to make the choice. Then everything became clear. Gwen – luckily for her – has never had to make such choices. And, until she does, she will never understand. "Be happy you don't have to." As Jack sometimes says, ignorance can be a blessing.

"Yes, Gwen, be happy we have our fearless leader to make the tough choices for us, so we can keep our consciences dirty only with standard shooting at aliens and other nasties." John's sarcasm echoes in the open space. Gwen opens her mouth to reply, but doesn't say a word. John seems completely immune to the many disapproving looks he gets. "Now, if we are done discussing the morality of the situation, could we get back to business?"

Both Jacks let out a tired sigh, almost in unison, and he has to wonder how many times Jack has been in this same situation, being accused of being heartless for doing what had to be done to keep the world in one piece. Slowly, he places all the mugs on a tray and crosses the room, handing everybody a mug of steaming hot coffee. He stops right behind Jack – his Jack, and places a hand on his shoulder. Reassuring. Supporting. Hoping it will be enough to keep Jack going through this. Jack takes a sip of his coffee and a deep breath before speaking again.

"Gwen." When she looks up, tears are welling in her eyes, and she still looks ready to snap back and refuse to follow Jack's lead anymore. But she blinks the tears away and nods. Maybe Torchwood is starting to get to her, hardening the oh so human reactions in her. Which may be a horrible thing to happen to her, but it is probably the only way she is going to survive this job. "Take the SUV, see what you can get out of Johnson's men. Get Andy to give you a hand bring them here, if he can. Call for backup if you need it." She nods, reluctantly. "The last thing we need is for the one police officer who doesn't consider us laughing stock or snotty insufferable... people to get in trouble for helping us." Gwen grabs her bag and heads out without a word.

Jack turns around and places a hand on his cheek, and he finds himself leaning into it, and into the kiss that follows, bruising and demanding and almost enough to make him spill his coffee. He can feel John's eyes on him, and probably the other Jack's as well, but for once, he doesn't care.

"Are you two going to invite anybody else or is it a private party?" Jack pulls away with a sad smile as John's voice echoes, forehead resting on his. He finds it hard to not smile back. "At least get a room, if you are not going to let me join in, will you?"

With a sigh, Jack takes a step back and heads for his office, motioning the other Jack to follow. His brain still struggles to cope with the idea of two Jacks in the same room. Part of him hopes it will be easier to deal with this next time it happens.

Part of him hopes against hope that it will never, _ever_ happen again.

"Just you and me, then, Eye Candy." He looks up at John, who is staring at him from the railings like the cat that got the cream. "Fancy some fun?" He snorts and shakes his head.

"Work to do, John." John pulls a frustrated face, and pretends to hit the top railing.

"What am I supposed to do then?" John gestures towards Jack's office. "Those two are not going to let me in there while they talk whatever it is they are talking and hopefully shout at each other loud enough that I can at least find out what it is they are discussing."

"Go help Gwen, if you are bored. She may need a hand with those black-ops." This time it's John who snorts. "And apologise to her for taking the SUV without a word." John _laughs_. Outright laughs. "On second thoughts, no, you'd better stay away from her for the time being. Might be better for your health."

"Did you get the doctor as well?" He gives John a puzzled look. What the Hell is he talking about now. "When you locked Johnson's men away, did you get the doctor?"

"What doctor?"

"Patanjali. The very interested possible Torchwood."

"So he really _is_ involved in all of this." He has to smile when John arches an eyebrow, an almost approving look on that smug face of his. "I thought I was seeing conspiracies where they didn't exist, even if I didn't figure out exactly _how_ he ties into all this." He raises a hand and stops John before he has a chance to say anything. "Never mind, I don't think I want to know." He lets out a sigh, half frustration, half tiredness. "No, we didn't get him. He took us down to the morgue, but excused himself halfway there, when his pager beeped."

John lazily pushes himself away from the railing and stretches his arms above his head, t-shirt riding up his belly, exposing pale skin, and he finds it hard not to stare. After last night, he would quite like to drag John downstairs and take his revenge. But somehow he manages to keep his brain on track. Work to be done. World to save.

"I'd better go check on him, then." John heads for the door, shooting him an inviting look over his shoulder. "Make sure he is not gonna get us into any more trouble." The cog door starts rolling open, and John raises his voice over the alarms. "Sure you don't want to come along, Eye Candy?" He shakes his head, turns around, and heads for the Archives. Something tells him finding anything relating to these 456 down there may take a while.

And something tells him he doesn't want to know John's definition of 'checking in on someone'.


	27. Jack: future

It takes a long time to convince Jack that there is nothing more he can give him. No more details, no more information, no more anything. They have already given Jack way more than he ever intended to, and, surprisingly, the timelines seem to be taking it with considerable ease. Even more surprisingly, John is not to blame for most of the babbling. Which should in and of itself be worrying him, but for some reason isn't.

It takes an even longer time to convince Jack that the worst has – hopefully – been averted. With Johnson in the cells, her goons still in police custody, and Jack aware of where the blows may came from, he feels a lot more at ease than he has for a long time. There is still a chance that Whitehall will send someone else after Torchwood, but Jack should be able to handle that, with a bit of luck. That, and Ianto's suggestion to incorporate a full body scan to the security checks, should help.

John is nowhere to be seen when he leaves Jack's office. Gwen is not back yet. Something tells him releasing Johnson's team and transferring them to Torchwood may take quite a lot of paperwork, and may be delayed till the morning, which may actually be a good thing. And it wouldn't surprise him if she went straight home after the day they have had. It's not like he can blame her for her reaction.

Not that he can blame her for not wanting to be around him – either version thereof – right now.

Which leaves him with just one person to worry about. Ianto. Particularly after last night. He swallows and takes a deep breath, trying to steel himself for what may end up as another exchange of snarks and almost-angry remarks. Still, it takes a lot of determination to move his feet, to take a single step towards the Archives where Ianto is probably still looking for files connected to the 456.

He pauses for a second in front of the door to the Archives, struggling to remember his access code. It has, after all, been a long time since the last time he used it. He punches in the number; the door hisses open just an inch, but it takes a bit of persuasion to make it open wide enough for him to slip through.

The door locks behind him with a reassuring thud. It doesn't take long to find Ianto, sitting at one of the desks in the far wall, with various piles of reports around him, jacket discarded and hanging neatly on the back of the chair. And staring at him just as he comes into view. No wonder Ianto never fixed the door – it gives more than enough warning when someone walks into what are, effectively, Ianto Jones' private domains.

"Thought it'd be you." There's no anger, no reproach, no bitterness in the words, and he is reminded once again of Ianto's ability to understand and forgive. He tries to swallow the knot on his throat, but it only seems to tighten. "Let me guess." Ianto puts down the folder he's been browsing, and counts on his fingers. "John's not back yet, and when he is, we'll have to clean up whatever mess he's whisked up this time." He has to smile at that, even if it still hurts to see Ianto alive and smiling back at him. "Gwen has most likely gone home already, because Andy couldn't release Johnson's team at the moment." He nods. "And Jack – the other one, that is – is brooding in his office after the two of you had a cosy chat about life, the universe and everything else and discovered that the answer isn't forty-two, after all." A pause. "All of that, while I was feeding our guests, including Johnson, and trawling through about a ton of out-of-date, misplaced files."

"Ianto..." He's not even sure where to start. An apology doesn't quite seem to cut it, particularly when half the things he feels the need to apologise for haven't really happened, and hopefully never will. "I..." Ianto holds his eyes, a half smile on his lips, and _waits_ , somehow making it look like he is not expecting anything. There is a moment of silence and stillness, and memories rush back in. He closes his eyes, struggling to breath, struggling to push them away.

A hand on his shoulder, heat seeping through his shirt. A thumb runs over his ear, barely there. _Reassuring_. Calming. Offering so much, and asking for so little, and making him want to say too much. He tries to speak, but the words die on his lips as Ianto puts a finger to them.

"Don't." A whisper, and he can hear the threat of eternal instant coffee in Ianto's voice if he as much as dares _think_ about apologising. He nods, and leaves the ghost of a kiss on Ianto's fingertips. He's missed this, the quiet understanding that never quite required words. He has missed Ianto, every little detail of him. And right now, he is finding it very hard to convince himself that this is real, that Ianto may, after all, and with a bit of luck, make it through these treacherous days and not end up dead because of _him_. "Don't blame yourself, Jack." He blinks in surprise, and finds himself looking straight into Ianto's eyes. "You did what had to be done."

It takes a moment for Ianto's words to sink in, for his brain to figure out exactly what Ianto is talking about. 1965, not 2009. The 456, the kids he sacrificed back then, not the mistakes he made in the original timeline, the mistakes Jack will hopefully not make again.

Even without knowing what went on, Ianto trusts him, his judgement.

Blindly.

And that is exactly what got Ianto killed the first time around – trusting _him_. He shakes his head and tries to take a step back, but Ianto brings both hands up and holds him in place, preventing him from looking away.

"Not always." He places a hand on Ianto's side, and he finds it hard to not pull Ianto closer. It's hard to believe he'd be welcome, after the way he messed things up last night. He should have known Ianto wouldn't take kindly to the idea of being away from Torchwood when Torchwood needed him, of being whisked away to safety, or as close to it as possible in these dangerous days. But he had to try. His fingers seem to tighten on Ianto of their own volitions. Ianto winces, hissing, but holds his hand in place when he tries to take it away.

"You can't always anticipate the outcome of everything you do." Ianto leans forward and kisses him, all teeth and a hint of tongue, demanding and yet almost tentative. As if it were Ianto who isn't sure whether he'll be welcome. He pulls Ianto close, hands clawing at clothes, trying to find skin, as if trying to make sure that Ianto is here, is alive, is not a ghost. Ianto's hands on his neck hold him, ground him and keep him close, and he is more than happy to go with it.

"Doesn't mean..." He's panting by the time they break for air, when Ianto walks him backwards until his back hits the side of a bookcase that shakes perilously at the assault. "Doesn't mean... I won't try." Ianto's lips trail down his jaw, his neck, pulling clothing aside but refusing to undo a single button. He has to wonder if Ianto picked up the trick from John, or vice versa.

Not that it matters.

"Maybe you shouldn't." Not a question, not a suggestion, but almost a fact of life, as obvious to Ianto as the fact that the Sun raises on the East, or that coffee should be drunk black. He lets out a sigh, not wanting to contemplate the possibility that maybe, just maybe, Ianto is right. It would be easy, forgiving his own mistakes. He may even be able to do it, if _his_ mistakes didn't cost _other people_ their lives.

"I have to." Because he couldn't live with himself if he didn't. If he didn't try to keep everybody safe. If he didn't try to win even against all hope. And, unfortunately, he has no option but to carry on living, whatever the price of his mistakes. Ianto's hands come up to his cheek again. Thumbs run over his lips, torturing, tempting, offering.

"Stop carrying the world on your shoulders." If only he could. Ianto is only a hairsbreadth away, and it feels like his whole world is crumbling, and how the two connect is not entirely clear in his head. But, then again, things always had a tendency to not be entirely clear when it comes to Ianto. "Share the burden." Almost a plea. It takes a while for him to recognise the disgruntled noise as his own, as a thwarted laughter that was never meant to be.

"With whom, Ianto?" He's got his arms around Ianto now, pulling him close, warmth seeping through clothes. Somehow Ianto manages to sneak away from him and takes a couple of steps away, grabbing him by the hand to make sure he will follow. They half-walk, half-run to the door, and walk out into the corridor, locking it behind them. Ianto pushes him against the wall and kisses him again, lips and body pressed hard against him for a long moment before pulling away again.

"Those around you." Ianto walks away again, hands undoing the deep red tie, and shoots him an inviting look over his shoulder. He follows. He will always follow Ianto. Just as he once told Gwen she would never get tired of following him, he'll never get tired of following Ianto.

"It would drive you mad." He catches up with Ianto when they are almost by the door to Ianto's bedroom. The one that started as barely a camp bed, back when Ianto was still caring for Lisa. The one he never knew about until one night, long after that, long after all the threats and the promises of suffering and the tentative restart of everything between them, when Ianto complained about the small, cramped bed under his office and informed him more civilised quarters had been arranged. More civilised quarters where both sleep and sex would be possible, to be precise. "It did... it would drive Gwen away." He grimaces, memories good and bad overlapping, merging, melting into one another. "It would drive you all away. John does his best, and even he struggles."

Ianto shakes his head and pushes him against the door, opening it behind him. He stumbles, all balance lost, and almost falls flat on his backside, but Ianto catches him, expertly using their momentum to make them land on the bed. He swallows and looks up at Ianto towering over him, tie lost somewhere in the process, hair ruffled from where his hands have run through it.

Alive.

Gorgeous.

"We are stronger than you give us credit for." Barely a whisper, but full of self-belief and certainty. "All of us." He finds himself nodding, pulling a face, wanting to smile and fall apart at the same time. "Trust us." He takes a deep breath and pulls Ianto down. Buries his head on the crook of Ianto's neck, loses himself in the here and now, pushes away all the maybes and what ifs and could have beens and possibilities.

"I know." Ianto's knees dig painfully in his sides, but he refuses to let go, to move, to complain. He chokes on too many words, too many explanations, too many apologies that he never thought he would have the chance to say, and doesn't feel right to say now that he has the chance. Whoever said time travel wasn't a paradox in and of itself?

It takes a while before Ianto moves, kicks his shoes and lies beside him, head resting barely an inch away. It takes a while before he realises he shouldn't be the one here. He arches an eyebrow and is about to ask, but thinks better of it. The last thing he needs is to drive Ianto away again. He reaches over to Ianto, running a finger down Ianto's forehead, nose, lips. Barely there, as if making sure Ianto is still here. Ianto bites his finger playfully, and smiles at him.

"I'm not about to vanish into a puff of smoke, Jack." Ianto pulls him closer, raking nails down his flank. "And, more importantly, I'm not going to break if you try to fuck me into the mattress."


	28. John

"So. I'm guessing you'll be going home." Jack – Ianto's Jack – comes out of his office and leans on the railings beside him. "Now that the Hub is in one piece." He doesn't move, keeps his eyes on the water tower. After a day of frantic activity, everything is finally silent – or at least as silent as the Hub ever is, with all the little noises that never die: water dripping, plumbing clacking, computers humming. After a night tracking down Patanjali and making sure he won't be a problem anymore, his whole body aches and is clamouring for some rest.

But there are still things to tend to.

Bloody Torchwood.

"Nah. Not yet." He pulls a face, hoping Jack won't ask too many questions, because he's getting tired of people getting the truth out of him even without asking. He's already said too much to Ianto – well, he didn't really _say_ that much, but the kid knows more than he should already – and Jack knows more than he should ever have found out. Jack does that snort-giggle thing of his, and he can't help thinking just how much he misses that, seeing a real smile on Jack's face. "Not going to let you have all the fun with the aliens."

"Funny. That's just what I said." He raises an eyebrow and looks at Jack. What the Hell is he talking about now? "Well, when I say I, I mean the other me. My future self. That's exactly what he said." Oh, great. The two Captains had a nice cosy chat. Whatever next.

"So, why are you asking me?" With a sigh, he pushes himself away from the railings and slowly walks to the sofa, sitting with his feet on the table in front of him. "You don't seriously think I could make him change his mind, do you?" He smiles, hoping to throw Jack off the train of thought he is following, and knowing it won't be easy. Jack smiles back, that predatory smile of him that doesn't surface that often these days. Not in Jack's other self, anyway.

"Is it really that bad?" He tries to hold Jack's gaze, clenching his teeth, still trying to smile. Pretends not to know what Jack means. Eventually looks away, because he wants to tell Jack, wants to tell him to make sure those he loves are not in danger, to take them somewhere safe where they can't be harmed. But he knows the timeline has already changed, so he's as blind as everybody else and his guess of what is and isn't safe is as good – or as bad – as anybody else's.

"Why are you asking what you know I won't answer?" Jack nods, crossing his arms in front of him and idly swinging his right foot, boot barely scraping the concrete floor. "You are not an idiot, I'm sure you've figured it out by now." Jack lets out a sigh, emotions playing on his face. He's been around long enough to figure out just why he and Jack – his Jack – want to stay.

"We lost, didn't we?" He closes his eyes and lies back on the sofa, hands behind his head. Would Jack get the hint if he just stormed out? "Before you changed things. When the Hub blew up, it didn't just fuck up the timelines. Torchwood lost, didn't we? That is why you want to stay. That is what you want to fix now."

"No, Jack, Torchwood won." He aims for casual, for carefree, but he is miles off the mark. "Torchwood always wins, no matter the price." He keeps his eyes closed, not wanting to see how Jack reacts to that. Because, Jack being Jack, he will blame himself even for things that didn't happen, that may never happen now. "That's why we are here, to make sure we didn't screw that up." He brings his hand to his left holster and pops it open. "And now, I'll have to shoot you if you keep asking questions."

Steps on the concrete, coming up from the corridors. It must be Ianto; Jack – his Jack – has been hiding most of the day, probably wishing he could be out brooding on a roof, overlooking Cardiff and getting wet to the bone despite that coat of his. Old habits die hard, and all that bollocks, or so Jack says. 'Too hard to be around Ianto and not act like the kid has just raised from his grave' is probably closer to the truth. At least Jack had the good sense of not sneaking out, just in case Whitehall had a backup plan after they captured Johnson.

"I found some more files that mention the 456, or what I think may be the 456." He can picture Ianto, still in his waistcoat and tie, standing in the middle of the Hub, a stack of folders under his arm, one or two open and carefully balanced on one hand. "Nothing obvious that we could use, but at least..." A pause, as if Ianto had just lifted his head and noticed the tension between him and Jack. "I'm... not interrupting, am I?"

"Of course not." He stands up, tucks his thumbs on his belt and finds Ianto just where he had expected him. "I'm done not answering, even if Jack isn't done asking."

He walks towards Jack, wishing there were something he could do about all this madness. Placing a hand on Jack's cheek, he kisses him, softly, and it almost feels like a goodbye until Jack brings his hands to the back of his neck and deepens the kiss, and he struggles to breathe. He used to think this Jack, the one he met when he came back to Cardiff, was broken and bent and had lost part of that wonderful sparkle he used to have when they first met, when the Universe was not enough for their ambitions. Now he knows there is still a bit of that spark left in him, and he would do anything to keep it alive.

When he pushes away, reluctantly, he tries to smile. Jack stares at him, as if expecting he will suddenly change his mind and tell him all he wants to know. He raises an eyebrow and pats Jack's cheek before turning around and walking away.

"I'll be in my room if anybody needs me, or just fancies some fun." He winks at Ianto as he goes by, and something in Ianto's expression tells him he won't sleep alone tonight. This morning. Whenever now is. "Gwen will no doubt think we had an orgy while she was at home with that husband of hers, so we may as well do the deed if we will get the reputation anyway."

Behind him, Ianto snorts and Jack laughs. With a bit of luck, things won't change much in the next few days.

He's lying on the bed, in the dark – or what passes for dark in a place where emergency lights are everywhere. Boots discarded, sword on the desk, gun belt on the floor where he can reach to it, and really hating being blind in a situation that may destroy the people he loves.

He bites his lips, trying to keep a cool head. Knowing how things played the first time around, when the Hub was blown up, can work against him now that the timelines have been changed. Keeping Ianto away from Thames House may not be enough. Hell, for all he knows, it may be Ianto's time, and the kid will end up dead regardless of what he – or anybody else on the planet – does, or changes, or tries.

That is an option he doesn't want to consider.

A knock on the door drags him away from his thoughts and, before he can even reply, the door opens. Jack – Ianto's Jack – lets himself in and leans against the wall, arms crossed in front of him, staring at him in the dim light. He can barely make out the expression on Jack's face, all shadows and unasked questions.

"It's hard not to ask." He pulls a face, aware that is as close to 'I'm sorry' as Jack – any version thereof – will ever come. "Even though you are blind now." A pause. A heartbeat. Two. Three. "I just... want to know what to watch out for. Everything... well, almost everything, at least, could still turn out the same way."

"It's hard not to tell." Well, he can't really blame Jack, he's never been one for apologies either. "What did Jack tell you?" The bed creaks as Jack sits on the edge, elbows on his knees, considering his answer. And then it hits him: they are all keeping secrets from each other. Both Jacks, Ianto, himself. They are all hiding something from the others, carrying their own private burdens of silence. "Don't tell me, I may have to kill him for babbling too much." Jack snorts, slowly lying down, hands behind his head.

"I'm sure I should say something in his defence." Yeah, well, good luck with that, Jack. "He's I, after all, I'm sure I am allowed to defend myself." A hand lands on his belly and pulls him towards Jack, and he just goes with it, pushing away – or trying to, at least – the memories of what may or may not come. When Jack kisses him, tentative at first, he loses himself in it.

"You should be with Ianto." He rests his forehead on Jack's, trying not to give away too much. He remembers Jack – his Jack – regretting all the nights he didn't spend with Ianto, all the wasted chances, all the things he left for later, thinking there would time to share them, to say them. The last thing he wants is Jack – this Jack – resenting him for robbing him of one of them.

Because even if Ianto makes it through this, and through a long life in Torchwood, and lives to be an age-old pensioner collecting what must be a more-than-generous pension from the Crown, Jack – any version thereof – will eventually have to move on without Ianto. And, if he knows Jack, even then the recriminations of wasted moments will surface.

"He's gone back to Jack. He's good at that, getting up in the middle of the night, getting some work done and sneaking back to bed before I wake up." He raises an eyebrow, not entirely surprised. "Ianto seemed to need your Jack as much as the other way around."

He can't help the smile. Trust Ianto to give Jack – any Jack – everything he may need. Even after Jack proved a bit of a disappointment and failed to understand that Ianto, despite his possible fate, would not have anybody wrap him in cotton wool and keep him safe. Maybe Jack will not make the same mistake twice. He raises an eyebrow. And, well, if Jack – his Jack – does indeed put his foot firmly in, as it often happens, it will probably result in Ianto knocking on his door, and then the three of them – Ianto, Ianto's Jack and himself – can have a good bit of fun and mock his Jack for missing it in them morning.

There is a moment of tension, of uncertainty, that ends with Jack's fingers treading up his stomach, pulling at his shirt to find skin. He shivers. By the Goddesses, he has missed Jack, this not-so-broken Jack, more than he can tell. He goes with it, drowning in the heat, the touch, the raw need. Raises a hand to Jack's cheek, traces Jack's lips with his thumb.

"I need a favour." Barely a whisper, as if Jack didn't want the world to hear. Lips follow fingers and he finds himself panting and almost ready to agree to anything if Jack doesn't stop what he's doing. The air around him is cold, but it only makes for the most delicious contrast as Jack nibbles at his skin. He mutters something that hopefully sounds like a yes. "I need you." A bite, just over his ribs. "To take Jack." And another, further up. "Back." And over his collarbone, his shirt somehow gone in the process.

It takes a moment for Jack's words to filter through to his brain, and even longer for the meaning to sink in. Never let it be said that the mighty Captain Harkness never used dirty tactics to get others to agree to his 'sensible requests'.

"You gotta be joking." He tries to pull away form Jack, to get some space to think, but Jack has him pinned to the bed, legs trapped so he can't even attempt to kick Jack off him, arms held down. "I have about as much chance of convincing him as I have..." He swallows as Jack's lips trace his neck. It should worry him, how easily Jack has immobilised him without him even realising. "Of convincing you, I guess." But in all honesty, it just turns him on. He has always had a soft spot for lovers that can handle him. Jack smiles, predatory and certain that he will get his way.

"If he stays here, the ripple will miss him." There is so much pain in Jack's voice that for a second his mind doubts which one this is. But there is also a hint of hope. Jack's grip on him relaxes just enough to let him sneak his hands to Jack's neck. He pulls Jack towards him, lips seeking, teeth worrying skin.

"It may already have." Hard to keep a cool head when all his body wants is to lose himself in Jack and forget everything that is riding on these few days. When he wishes he could just forget everything and stop caring so fucking much. He has always done his best to keep his lovers alive, but he always knew when to cut his loses and step away. In recent times, however...

Let's just say there are lovers one does not walk away from.

"It may not." Well, it is entirely possible, yeah, but if they want to catch the ripple, they would have to act fast. And he has more pressing urges right now than taking Jack – his Jack – back to when they came from. Like, making sure everything they have done is not in vain.

"Why?" Barely a whisper, because he doesn't have air for more. His fingers shake on the buttons of Jack's shirt, on Jack's belt, on every fucking piece of clothing that is getting in the way. Jack trails nails down his side, and he moans, pleasure and pain mixing in a way not many lovers in his life have mastered.

"Whatever it is he lived through..." Hot skin against him, seeking hands. He tries to turn the tables on Jack, struggles, tries to kick his way from under Jack, but fails. Jack may have freed his hands, but is still holding him down. "I don't want him to remember." Of course. Even without knowing the details, Jack knows enough not to want to find out, not to want to remember.

"Oh, so His Immortalness shouldn't remember." He aims for carefree, but it comes out almost bitter. "What about me?" Jack stops in his tracks, hands hovering over him, and laughs. He rolls his eyes. He'll have to watch it or even the pretence that he doesn't really care will crumble and fall.

"Go with him." The emotion in Jack's voice catches him out. He swallows. "Stay with him." He shakes his head violently. "Just like you have been doing." He has to wonder what Jack – or Ianto – have been telling this Jack. Everybody seems to know more than they should these days. Especially more than they should _about him_. Which is unnerving.

"I can't." He lifts his head, trying to reach for Jack's body, but he can barely move. "Not yet." Jack leans down, offering his neck, but stays just out of reach. Temptingly close. Playing him like a fine tuned instrument. "I need to make sure..."

"We'll take it from here." A hand sneaks between their bodies, grabs his cock and _squeezes_. Hard. Electricity jolts through his body, raw and unstoppable. It takes him a second to recognise the noises that fill the room as his own mewling and moaning. "I'll make sure we all survive."

"You'll... you'll need help." Hard to keep coherent thought going when one is being so thoroughly teased and mistreated. So wonderfully teased and mistreated. So roughly pushed to the edge, to the point where _begging_ to be fucked is no longer out of the question.

"We can manage."

"That is exactly... what you said... the first time around." Teeth, nails, fingers digging so hard onto his skin he'll be bruised. "And we all know how well that ended." And how he loves it. And how he has missed it.

Jack pushes inside him, rough and sudden and just the right side of painful, and he's not even sure where his clothes went. Strong hands hold his wrists above his head, teeth trail down his neck. He tries to shake Jack, or at least pretends to try. He's spent such a long time wishing for the old Jack, for this Jack, the one that still had that wonderful spark that it would be a waste not to thoroughly enjoy the moment. Not that he'll ever let Jack think he has willingly surrendered – he would never hear the end of it.

"Please." A whisper in his ear, so full of emotion, of hope. Jack stills, a single finger tracing patterns on his chest and driving him mad. "I would do it myself if I could."

"Do we have to...?" He struggles for air, for thoughts, for words. "Do we have to discuss this while we fuck?" Jack smiles and leans down to bite his shoulder, sending a spark of pain through his body. He hisses. Jack only bites harder before letting go.

"Of course not." Thank the Goddesses for that. "You can always agree to help first, then we can carry on with the sex." A heartbeat. Five, six very rapid heartbeats. A swipe of tongue on his neck, just under his left earlobe. He tries to snort, but it comes out closer to a moan than anything else.

"I can't." He shakes his head. "I could try, but..." He bucks his hips, but Jack simply uses weight and gravity to hold him down. "You know how stubborn you can be." He takes a deep breath, Jack's lips hovering barely a hairsbreadth over the pulse point on his neck. "Please..."

"Will you or won't you?" Teeth sink into his shoulder as Jack moves ever so slowly, the promise of so much in just a hint of touch. "Come on, John..." He shakes his head again, words somehow failing him. "What do I have to offer to sway you?"

"Could stop promising and start delivering." Jack just _smiles_ , and he growls in frustration. Jack's thumb runs up and down his throat, barely there, and it makes him wish for so much more. Probably Jack is very much aware of just what that little pressure on his windpipe does to him.

"Will you?" Jack lies a forearm across his throat, and he barely manages to swallow. "You know you will, John." The pressure increases. "You know I can give you what you want, and you know you will eventually _yield_." The pressure disappears, leaving him longing for more.

"You are not the only one." He's panting, squirming and losing control. Jack moves again, almost pulling out, and he finds himself whimpering, frustrated at being denied. A shiver of raw need runs down his spine, reminding him of other times, other lovers. Of Ianto holding him on his knees, fucking his mouth and taking his pleasure. Of being bound and gagged and used for his lover's every whim. Almost as rough as Jack is being now, but never quite as good.

"Take him home, John." A whisper in his ear as Jack pushes inside him again. He fights back the moans, the cries, the screams. "Be a good boy and do as you are told." He nods, part of him wondering _why_ he still bothers trying to resist Jack. "Say it." Pressure on his throat again, pressing down, cutting his air as Jack starts moving again, excruciatingly slow.

"I'll..." He can barely speak. "I'll take Jack home." At that, Jack starts moving in earnest, all roughness and teeth on his earlobe and nails on his flanks and barely enough air getting to his lungs to prevent him from passing out. His vision starts to tunnel as he comes, pleasure and pain mixing and crashing in waves over him. Jack keeps pounding into him mercilessly, still cutting his air. It's almost enough to make him want _more_.

Jack collapses on top of him when he comes, carefully shifting his arm and allowing him to breathe. He gasps for air, brings his arms around Jack when his hands are released. Enjoys the blissful moment before conscious thought reasserts itself. He is sure he should come up with some witty remark right now, but his brain seems to not be available for comment.


	29. Jack: present

He wakes up alone. Which, come to think of it, is quite startling in and of itself. He has to blink a couple of times, kickstart his brain again and think hard before he can pinpoint the last time he went to bed with company and woke up alone.

It was a _very_ long time ago.

He wakes up alone _in John's bed_. Which is even stranger. John has been known to disappear in the middle of the night – more than once, at that – leaving absolutely no trace behind, but never when the bed is John's own. He shakes his head, last night slowly clearing into focus. Maybe just this once John has done what he asked him to, and taken his other self away.

He lets out a sigh, not knowing whether to be relieved or disappointed that John didn't put up more of a fight, and heads for the shower. It's not even six in the morning yet, but, with everything Torchwood have on their plate right now, an early start won't go amiss. Even though he's barely had a couple of hours of sleep...

Ianto is already making coffee by the time he goes upstairs, looking every bit the prim and proper gentleman, a cloud of worry over him. He arches an eyebrow as he approaches the coffee machine and settles a hand on Ianto's shoulder. Ianto doesn't turn around, just carries on brewing, hands moving methodically, efficiently. Only when two mugs of steaming coffee have been carefully prepared does Ianto look at him, handing him the blue-and-white stripy mug that seems to have been assigned to him lately.

"John's taken him back." Ianto nods and takes a sip. He can almost hear the cogs in Ianto's head, the calculations, the thoughts spinning around. "Or rather, forward." At that, Ianto rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

"Don't make me reach for painkillers this early in the morning, I am sure it can't be good for the stomach." Despite everything, there is a hint of a smile on Ianto's lips. He has to refrain from mentioning that the amount of caffeine Ianto gets through in a single morning is probably worse for a human body than any painkillers. "Why?"

"I asked him to." Ianto arches an eyebrow in a silent 'since when does Captain John Hart do anything _just because he's been asked to_?'. He hides behind his mug for a minute, considering how best to explain this, if at all. It even gives _him_ a headache. "I am hoping the ripple will catch them." With a sigh, Ianto grabs a couple of biscuits from the tin by the coffee machine and heads for his station.

"Do I want to know what that is?" There is a moment of silence as he follows Ianto and watches as Ianto runs the scans that first detected the other Vortex Manipulators. Only one dot blips on the screen, over Roal Dahl Plass. His own. That seems to be enough to convince Ianto that their two visitors are truly gone. Ianto spins his chair, swallows the last of the biscuits and takes a long sip of coffee. "Go on, then. Explain." He finds it hard not to laugh at that. Or at the fact that only Ianto could make him laugh at something like that.

"Timelines have changed." Ianto nods a few times, as if following a particular train of thoughts. "That causes a ripple."

"And it expands from there, in every direction." Ianto cradles the mug of coffee in his hands. "Just like a ripple on a pond when something drops into it."

"Exactly." He sits on the sofa, eyes moving around the familiar surroundings, elbows on his knees, and places his mug on the table. "Only that it only touches those that are when they are supposed to be."

"So... We don't remember the timeline before it changed?" The idea seems to concern Ianto more than anything they have encountered so far.

"Nope."

"But I remember John and Jack being here." Ianto frowns, pensive, one foot idly tapping on the floor. "Of course. That is part of the _new_ timeline." He nods. "I see." Ianto pauses for a second, as if putting together the last few strands of the explanation. "Are you telling me that any time traveller could entirely change the course of History and we..."

"Would wake up in the morning never knowing things have changed, yeah."

"I suppose that is where Time Agents come in? Keeping History on track?" He smiles. Widely. Ianto will always, despite everything, have an idealistic streak.

"Ah, my young padawan, but what _is_ the right track for History?" Ianto raises his hands in an 'I do not want to know' gesture and drains the last of his coffee. He doesn't have the heart to explain that more often that not the Time Agency ended up _changing_ the timelines rather than _preserving_ them.

"So, if they had stayed here, or rather, _now_ , they would remember the original timeline." He nods.

"Which would have eventually given me a headache, what with remembering two sets of events, the ones that were and the ones that weren't, and never really knowing which is which." Ianto snort-giggles at the explanation.

"Has that ever happened to you before?" He pauses, considering his answer. There are things in his past he has never mentioned to anybody. There are others he would rather not think about. This one falls in both categories.

"Once." He pulls a face. He stopped asking himself how Ianto manages to get answers from him so easily a long time ago. "Don't ask." Ianto opens his mouth, but seems to think better of it and closes it again. "Sometimes it's better to forget." Ianto nods, more to himself than anything else.

"Thank you." He takes a deep breath. If someone could understand his reasons, it would be Ianto. "Although I have to say, we could have done with the manpower." Ianto tilts his head and arches an eyebrow. "Given what we are up against..."

He shakes his head, not wanting to think about it. Ianto is right, they could have done with the help, particularly since UNIT seems to still be waiting for authorisation from who knows where, despite the very clear message he sent them yesterday. Trust UNIT high command to remember the fact that they are an _international_ task force just when he plays the royal prerogative card.

"We'll manage." Ianto snorts in that entirely sarcastic way that says so much without a single word.

"We always do." With a sigh, Ianto goes back to his screens, and runs the analysis for the Vortex Manipulator signals once again. "One way or another." Ianto lets out a frustrated sigh when the search returns, once again, a single signature. "Will they remember being here?"

"I'm not sure." He blinks in surprise at the admission. He ran countless missions for the Agency. Changed Time, in big ways and small ways, more times than he can remember. That is not even taking into account the many _nudges_ he and John gave the timelines just to get a bit of an advantage. He was always home in time for the ripple, and still he remembers causing the change. Although, of course, that doesn't mean he remembers _every_ change he caused. He shakes his head. The painkillers are starting to sound like a good idea, as far as his head is concerned.

The cog door starts rolling, alarms blaring, the computers bringing up the latest additions to the security scans as a cheerful Toshiko comes in, carrying a box precariously balanced on one hand and a coffee cup in the other. She stops in her tracks when she sees them, looking almost guilty. Ianto shoots her a sideways glare, but there's a hint of a smile in it.

"Morning!" She makes her way up the steps and to her station, placing cup and box and handbag on her desk and turning on monitors in a well-established sequence. "I brought doughnuts." She sneaks a hand into the box and brings out one before passing it over. Ianto grabs a chocolate one. He shakes his head.

"What are you doing here this early, Toshiko?" She holds his gaze for a second before turning around, sitting on her chair, and starting to type one-handed.

"Well, I had an idea about the 456." He raises an eyebrow, inquisitive. "They have been sending data down from... well, from wherever they are. Using a given frequency." He nods. "Which means we can track it. Both ways."

"You mean we can know who's been listening to them?" Toshiko nods and takes another bite of her doughnut, getting sugar on her nose. Ianto hands her a paper napkin that she takes gratefully. "I'm guessing Whitehall. They are the only ones who had the equipment." They are the only ones who knew.

"And we can also..."

Toshiko's voice trails off. He follows her eyes to Ianto, who is gripping the edge of his desk as if his life depended on it. He calls out, but Ianto does not respond. His heart starts thumping in his ears as he jumps to his feet and crosses the distance between them. Ianto is scrunching his eyes, and still not answering.

Something is definitely not right this morning.


	30. Ianto

When he opens his eyes again, he is lying on the autopsy bay, and Owen is shining a light into his left eye, forcibly holding it open. Then into his right one. He tries to growl, but his mouth is dry, and the world seems to be strangely spinning around him.

"He's awake, Jack!" Owen doesn't shout, but the voice seems to reverberate in his head. He tries to sit up, but Owen's hand on his chest keeps him still on his back. Trying again doesn't seem like a good idea. Not while everything is still moving alarmingly around him.

"I'm fine." It comes out a lot more jumbled than he intended to, but still clear enough for Owen to bring out the sarcasm.

"No, you are not, Teaboy." He rolls his eyes. Owen only calls him Teaboy when he's worried. He'll have to tell Owen one day that he figured out the facade of snark a long time ago. It would be interesting to see just how badly it can unsettle Owen. "You _fainted_."

"Did not." Way to go, Ianto. First order of business: take Owen's bait and probably get stuck in a conversation that even five year olds would consider immature.

"Did too." Owen shines the light into his eyes again. "Gave'em quite a scare." He almost laughs at that, but it's never a good idea to outright laugh at Owen while being treated. Owen would never intentionally hurt a patient – he is a doctor, after all – but can make treatment quite... uncomfortable. "Besides, the last thing I need is for this to happen again." Warm gloved hands feel the back of his skull, at the top of his neck. Fingers prod and probe. "I, unlike others, am capable of sleeping until my alarm clock goes off, and that is exactly what I was doing today until a very panicked Captain Harkness called me and threatened me with pretty much all the fires of Hell and unemployment..."

"... If you didn't get your bony ass here in under five minutes." Jack's voice drifts from above as boots clatter on the steps. "I can still remember conversations I had less than fifteen minutes ago, thank you." Owen huffs and puffs, but carries on with his examination. "How is he?"

"In perfect health, as far as I can tell." Jack leans over him from the other side of the examination table, and he has to resist the urge to roll his eyes.

"I could have told you that." Words seem to flow better this time.

"You were knocked out on the floor when I arrived, so, no, I don't think you could have." Owen snaps his gloves off. "Unless the blood tests find anything, I don't think there is anything wrong with him."

"Can I go now, then?" Owen nods absent-mindedly as he starts filling in reports. He sits on the table, slowly. The world around him still seems to shiver and wobble in a disconcerting way. He takes a few deep breaths. Glares at Jack when Jack offers him a hand, and stubbornly stands up on his own. "I'm fine, Jack. Really." Jack arches an eyebrow in a very obvious 'if you say so', but takes his hands away and lets him through.

Negotiating the steps back to the main level of the Hub is not easy with the world slightly off kilter. It feels similar to the other morning, when John stopped Jack from asking any more questions after the timelines threatened to snap. But not so intense. Almost as if... He shakes his head.

It can't be.

He stops in his tracks, one foot still in the air, mid-step.

But it sure as Hell feels like it.

Slowly, he forces himself to start moving again.

The alarms go off again as Gwen walks in, the new security scans Tosh put in place just last night giving her the all clear. He flops on his chair as she passes by. Three, two, one...

"Sorry I'm late." Gwen drops her bag and turns her computer on, cheerfully smiling at Tosh when she offers the by now half empty box of doughnuts. "Left my phone in my bag, didn't hear it." Gwen reaches for a mug of coffee that isn't there. He sighs. If something ever happens to him, aliens will definitely cheer – Torchwood will fall prey to their own inability to deal with the basics of catering and filing. Jack growls, but there is not even a hint of anger in it. "Won't happen again!"

"It better not." Owen turns up the sarcasm and the bile, and he can't but hope that one day those two will grow up and leave their past where it belongs, rather than drag it through the public arena almost every day. "We are in the middle of an international crisis here, we need all hands on deck." Wisely, Gwen chooses not to reply.

"Settle down, children." Jack's voice booms in the open space. There is still a cloud of worry over Jack, but there is also a hint of a smile. So different from the other Jack, the broken Jack that could barely look at him without showing guilt and remorse. "Gwen, did you manage to find something at Whitehall that would admit any knowledge of the black-ops we have downstairs?"

"Nope." Gwen shakes her head. "UNIT said they'll keep them in, if nobody claims them. If and when they can get around to sending someone to pick them up, that is." He rolls his eyes and makes a mental note to add half a dozen human meals to the shopping list. It may be some time before UNIT eventually get their act together. "They seem to be too busy at the moment. Doing what, I have no idea."

The grimace on Tosh's face doesn't go unnoticed, either, and he has to wonder what her connection to UNIT is. He could read her file – Jack may keep the personnel files under lock and key, but the Archivist keyring includes a copy of it. But it doesn't feel right to intrude into her life like that. She'll tell him, when she's ready.

Just as she's told him about so many things.

"Owen, anything new on the children?" Owen shrugs.

"Depends on your definition of 'new'." Jack growls. "We still don't know why they are the only ones susceptible to the signal, whatever it is..."

"They may not be the only ones..." Gwen, as usual, doesn't think twice before interrupting Owen mid-sentence, slender fingers pointing to her screen. A low-res video is playing, showing a man standing stock-still and chanting 'we are coming' in the same eerie voice as the children did yesterday morning. "Name's Timothy White. He's a patient in a psychiatric ward at the Duke Of York Hospital, East Grinstead."

"How did you get this footage?" Jack's standing behind Gwen's chair, eyes staring intently at the screen, a sudden flash of recognition suddenly playing over his expression. Tosh, still at her station, is providing a data feed with all the available information on the name, the place, the provenance of the video itself.

Slowly, he joins the crowd around Gwen's desk, still not sure whether he is walking on wobbly legs or the world around him is still... _shivering_ , for lack of a better word. Eyes closed, he takes a few deep breaths. Whatever this is, it doesn't feel good. But it doesn't feel _wrong_ either. It is just... extremely disconcerting. If this is really a ripple, he'd be happy never to be caught in one _ever again_.

"Staff e-mailed it to the police." Ah, good old citizen concerned going unnoticed. "But every police force is swamped with mums and dads going absolutely mental, so it's just waiting in line. I reckon no-one else has noticed him yet." Jack pats Gwen's shoulder, a quiet 'well done' that will never be voiced, that Gwen will never notice.

"East Grinstead." There's a hint of resignation in Owen's voice, as if he were fully expecting the marching orders that no doubt will come.

"That's what, two hours?" Jack pulls Gwen's chair away from her desk and turns it so that Gwen's facing the cog door. Slowly, the world around him begins to clear, to settle down. The invisible pressure around him vanishes.

"Oh, come on, Jack, you can't be serious." Owen rolls his eyes but brings a hand to his jacket. "It's not like we're going to find out anything useful out of that, are we?" He exchanges a silent look with Tosh. The same question has crossed his mind.

"Actually..." Tosh's voice has a hint of hesitation in it. As if she weren't sure how to word what she's trying to say. "If we want to block the transmission, we need all the data we can gather on it." He raises an eyebrow, wondering what is that Tosh is holding back. "The fact that an adult is being controlled in the same way as the kids may be significant."

"I'm on it!" Gwen grabs her bag and heads for the door. Jack throws a meaningful look at Owen, who lets out a sigh before grabbing his gear and following her, muttering under his breath. "I don't need company!" Gwen's voice is almost drowned by the alarms blaring as the doors open.

"It's not a suggestion, Gwen, it's an order." Jack's tone is final. Gwen shrugs. Owen falls into step beside her, stubbornly keeping his eyes ahead. He has to question whether expecting those two to work together is a wise move. With a sigh, he pushes the thought away, and leaves Jack to deal with the subtleties of interpersonal relationships in the workplace.

He approaches Tosh's desk and pulls a chair, eyes darting over her many screens. Slowly, his brain tries to make sense of all the data, of all the parallel streams of thought Tosh always follows when working. His heart leaps when it all clicks together.

"Do you think it could work?" She looks at him and bites her lip before nodding, almost reluctantly. "We should tell Jack"

"Not yet." He gives her a puzzled look and waits for an answer that doesn't come. Instead, Tosh just highlights a portion of data on the screen. He stares at it, sluggishly taking it in. "Not until we fix that." His heart misses a bit when he realizes the problem Tosh has run into. They could get rid of the 456 right now... but they would need a child in order to do so. He closes his eyes and leans back on the chair. "If we tell him now..." He nods, biting his lip.

"Keep working." Slowly, he stands up and runs a hand through Tosh's hair. She gives him a small smile, the one that says she understands what he's doing, and, more importantly, _why_. "I'll see if I can find out anything that could help."


	31. Jack: present

Raised voices from outside his office make him put down the phone and step out, mug in hand, just in case. There's been a lot of arguing recently, particularly since John and his other self turned up. About what to do with them, with the information they provided, with everything that kicked off just as they arrived. About who should babysit them. About whether or not John's latest gamble merited punishment or praise. About any sort of trivial thing, including where to get the daily takeaway dinner.

Needless to say, Ianto generally dealt with that one quite speedily: if anybody fancied anything other than what he ordered, they could go get it themselves.

Needless to say, nobody ever argued with that one.

"So, what's the argument about now?" He doesn't even have the energy to be annoyed at it anymore, provided nobody brings weapons of any kind into it. Ianto turns around and holds his gaze for a second before shaking his head, as if wanting to downplay it all. Toshiko swings her chair around and gives him an apologetic look. All of which only makes him more interested in it.

"We are not arguing!" Owen's voice booms from across the room. Ianto snort-giggles, and he finds it hard not to join in. There is something about this, about having his team around, about the way this disjointed group manage to keep it together through Hell and back, that makes all the dark moments worth it. He takes a few steps towards them. Ianto straightens his back and steps between him and Toshiko's screens.

"Of course not." He raises an eyebrow. There is obviously something he is not supposed to see right now, then. "Which of you is the one explaining why everybody else is wrong, then?" At that, Ianto looks away, the hint of a smile on his lips. Owen breaks into a laugh, and even Toshiko hides a smile behind her mug. He lets out a sigh. Business as usual in Torchwood.

"We're trying to figure out how to deal with the 456." Owen shoots Gwen an annoyed look when she tries to interrupt him. "Tosh has an idea." He raises an eyebrow. It's not like Toshiko to keep things from him. "Gwen thinks we're all mad for considering it."

"Care to share with the class?" Toshiko looks down, almost as if wanting to hide away, then shakes her head and slowly, almost reticently, tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. She trades a look with Ianto, who gives her a blink-and-you-missed-it smile. He has to wonder what the full story is with those two.

Not that either of them would tell him if he asked, anyway. No more than the snatches Ianto gave him.

Not that he ever would ask.

"I've been going over the records in the Archives, and over the readings of the data we collected when the 456 were controlling the children." He holds Ianto's eyes as he walks towards the sofa and sits down. It sinks under his weight in an uncomfortable way that reminds him, once again, that they need a new one. "There was a highly compressed burst of data embedded in one of the transmissions." Toshiko pauses for a second, eyes darting around the room. "The computers are still running it, but the bits that have been decoded and translated so far are... odd."

"Odd? As in...?" Owen slumps on his chair, stretches his neck and yawns. Gwen glares at Owen; she is getting better at it, but it still lacks the impact that Ianto's death-glare has. "You have to admit, in our line of work, 'odd' is not exactly self-explanatory, is it?"

"Twat." He almost sprays the coffee he is drinking as he struggles not to laugh. It should worry him, that even after all this time, Gwen and Owen are still at odds with each other, and it doesn't seem to be getting any better. It should worry him, but it doesn't. Because he knows that, when it matters, they will have each other's back, as they always have.

"That'd be Doctor Twat to you, PC Williams." Owen doesn't even look at Gwen. Gwen rolls her eyes but – quite wisely – doesn't bother to reply. Ianto holds his gaze, and he can't even begin to decipher that look.

"If we could get along with the problem at hand, and leave the bickering for later..." In the end, he is the one to look away from Ianto. He waves his hand at Toshiko, who nods and taps a few keys on her computer, probably bringing up some data onto her screens.

"The data burst was directed at a government building in London... Thames House." He grimaces and crosses his arms over his chest. It still hurts to think that it is precisely the people that know about Torchwood, about how they could help in a situation like this, that gave the order to kill him. That, in hindsight, he can live with. The fact that, according to Johnson, orders were given to exterminate Torchwood, on the other hand... "The 456 seem to be trying to make friends in high places." Toshiko shakes her head. "Anyway. I also traced the signal _backwards_ , to the source." He raises an eyebrow. "There's a ship in orbit."

"There's _what_?" He almost jumps from the sofa. His mind races back to one of John's throwaway remarks a couple of days ago, about the possibility of a ship being too close to Earth and unintentionally messing with the kids. "How could we miss something like that?" Was John trying to give him a clue and he entirely missed it? He catches himself just as he turns around, hand already curling in a fist and heading for the nearest wall.

He should have learnt by now that punching wall – or any other hard object – does most definitely _not_ help.

"Because we weren't looking, mostly." Toshiko keeps typing. Ianto shakes his head when he moves towards her station, almost a silent plea, and he finds himself standing still. "Don't worry, I've already figured out why we missed it and improved the filters." He nods, calming down a little. He is painfully aware of the fact that they can't prevent everything, they can't predict everything, they can't protect the world from everything. But he's more than ready to keep trying. "The thing is, I think we can use that same frequency. Send our own message up there."

"What, like 'you are scaring the kids, please go somewhere else'?" Owen's sarcasm has an edge to it that reminds him of the first time they met after Katie's death. Having been dragged out of bed too early is no excuse for being rude. "Because that always worked when we tried it before." He's got to give it to Owen, he's got a point, after all.

"Can we overload them?" Toshiko spins her chair around, and all eyes turn to him. "I've seen it done before. Send a resonant vibration that will overload their systems and, with a bit of luck, blow them to smithereens." He grimaces. Nasty way to make a ship go. Requires an enormous amount of power. And it's not particularly low key.

Silence falls. For a long moment, nobody speaks. Nobody even _breathes_ , let alone moves. Gwen looks at him with the same disbelief as when she found out about 1965, and it _hurts_. Owen raises an eyebrow in a 'that is exactly what I have been saying all along' gesture. Ianto, always the pragmatic one, swallows, and something tells him there is something he hasn't been told yet.

"I think we could, actually." Toshiko turns back to her screens. "I'm not sure how much damage it would cause up there, but..." Ianto moves to stand behind her and places a hand on her shoulder, reassuring. "If we could amplify it..."

"We could use the Rift!" He puts his mug down and walks to her station, standing right beside Ianto. They trade a sideways look, and he has to wonder what he is still missing here. "Just like we did with the Subwave Network." Slowly, Ianto makes his way to his own station, and starts typing, bringing up the data they used back then. "We can use the water tower as a relay, again. Should give you the power boost you need."

"Oh, great." Owen throws the pen he's been chewing onto his desk. "I try to open the Rift once, I get _fired_."

"Technically, it is not _opening_ the Rift." Ianto doesn't even bother to look away from the screens in front of him, and he can't help the warm feeling of gratitude that washes over him. Ianto may disagree with his decisions, but will – almost – always back him up. "Tosh improved the program so it can drain energy from it without opening it more than a crack. But even so..." Ianto lets the sentence hang in the air.

"Sounds like opening it to me." Owen gets up from his chair and reaches into the box on Toshiko's desk, bringing out a doughnut and biting into it. "Plus, there is the little detail this lot are neglecting to tell you." He looks to Ianto, who avoids his gaze. Tosh stares intently at her monitors. "That is what the argument was really about."

"What is it?" He has a very bad feeling about it.

"Apparently, the signal requires a child." If he didn't know better, he'd think Owen is enjoying this. He can see the emotions playing on Gwen's face, the cheerful soul that would always be ready to believe the best of humanity being crushed yet a bit more. He raises an eyebrow and looks back to the screens.

"Right now, I can't find a way to generate the resonance without a living being, Jack." Toshiko sounds almost apologetic, a hint of doubt on her voice.

"We can't do it, Jack." Gwen's voice is icy and full of unshed tears. Something in all of this – the children, the 456, the betrayal of Whitehall – seems to be hitting her hard. He pushes the thought away. Whatever it is, it will have to wait. "We _cannot_ do this."

He skims over the data on the screens in front of him, then moves to Ianto's workstation. The Rift will give them the power they need, but the signal will still need to be modulated and channelled through a person, just like the signal the 456 sent down had come through the kids. Not even the equipment in Thames House would be capable of sending a signal back on its own.

He steps back from the computers and faces Gwen. There is so much pain in her eyes, he can't help but wonder if Torchwood isn't asking – demanding – too much from her. Behind him, the tapping on keyboards subsides. The theoretical question that Ianto posed to Gwen not so long ago – one child or the world – is no longer theoretical. And Gwen is stubbornly clinging to her good and trusted 'there has to be another way, if only we look hard enough'.

The only problem is he knows full well quite often there isn't. Hence the argument. Owen – pragmatic Owen – would have argued that the blood of one child would feel much better on anybody's hand than the lives of the whole planet. Tosh and Ianto would have been stuck with deciding whether or not it was actually possible, whether it was guaranteed to work if they tried it. Gwen was probably adamant that telling him about this basically amounted to condoning the killing of a child, whoever the unfortunate victim might end up being.

He takes a deep breath and looks at them, one by one. Ianto nods, a silent gesture that quite often sounds like 'I will follow'. Owen tilts his head, still pretending the morality of the situation doesn't quite affect him. Toshiko's eyes dart between him and the screens, hand still tapping a few keys every now and again. Gwen refuses to meet his eyes. He sighs.

"Can you make it work with an adult?" Toshiko gives him a bewildered look, as if the thought hadn't even entered her mind yet, as if the only possibility worth her time were removing the human component from the transmitter entirely.

"I..." Hesitation. "I don't know." She steals a glance at her screens and types something. "I am still analysing the data Gwen and Owen brought back from Grinstead." The silence and tension seem to solidify around him. "If they can control an adult, there may be something in there, but it will take time..."

"Keep working on it." Gwen opens her mouth to protest, but he raises a hand to quieten her. "Whatever it takes, find a way to make it work with an adult." Ianto grimaces, as if he had somehow followed his train of thought. Toshiko nods reluctantly and starts babbling away about frequencies, power requirements, consequences for any living thing that stands at the centre of the signal.

"Jack, how can you?" Tears are welling in Gwen's eyes. "You can't ask anybody to do this!" He takes a step towards her, she takes a step back. He tries to smile, but it probably isn't more than a tired gesture.

"I don't _have_ to ask." Gwen shakes her head, as if she still didn't get it.

"What, you expect to find _volunteers_?" Even Owen rolls his eyes, probably having figured what he intends to do, and stands up to place a hand on Gwen's shoulder. It's meant as reassuring, but it doesn't really work.

"I don't _have_ to." Eventually, realisation dawns on Gwen. "I've never asked anybody to do anything I wouldn't do myself. I'm not about to start now."

Without a word, he walks away, back to the precarious refuge of his office. The silence he leaves behind almost _hurts_.


	32. Ianto

Gwen all but collapses on the sofa when Jack walks away, tears she probably doesn't even notice streaming down her cheeks. He closes his eyes and swallows, and it takes way too much effort to push everything away and keep working.

According to Tosh's calculations, the demands of power to send a signal through a child could just about be achieved without opening the Rift. For an adult, it just gets more complicated. The wider the crack they open in the Rift, the higher the danger that they won't be able to close it in time. They need to get this precisely right, or they might end up saving the world from the 456 only to have it sucked into the big crack in the Universe that nobody even knows exists.

Just another bloody day at bloody Torchwood.

A hand on his, and a soft presence beside him. When he opens his eyes, he finds Tosh there, having wheeled her chair over from her station, a worried look on her face.

"I'm sorry, I should have kept my mouth shut." He shakes his head and lifts a hand to tuck that rebel lock of hair behind her ear. She tries to smile at him, but it is barely a skin-deep gesture. Tosh, caring, observant Tosh, has obviously spotted most of what is going on, of the silent conversation between him and Jack. Even the fact that he would much rather have Jack put himself through this than have to pick up the pieces if Jack has to make the decision again and sacrifice a child.

Because Jack would do it.

Even though it would kill him.

Behind Tosh, Owen glares at him. He stares back. Owen has been bitter recently every time anybody gets a hint of human contact. Probably something to do with the fact that Torchwood seems to have been eating into everybody's social time, with late nights and early starts and all-nighters blending together. And with the fact that Owen only seems to have eyes for Tosh, but still insists on keeping his distance.

Owen's loss, most definitely.

Eventually, it's Owen who looks away and stands up, making his way down to the autopsy bay with as much noise as possible and disappearing from view. Probably burying himself up to his elbows in alien corpses that still need cataloguing, rather than dealing with the bee in his bonnet.

"Not your fault." The words barely come out. His mouth is dry, and a sip of coffee doesn't seem to do anything to help. "We needed that data. It's not you who kicked a fuss about this." Tosh looks over her shoulder towards Gwen. Given enough time, they might have come up with a better option. One that didn't involve _anybody_ being hooked as a human antenna to a giant transmitter. Now that Jack knows what they are up to... He tries not to be bitter.

Not that it works.

"Could you talk him out of it?" He shakes his head. Tosh takes her glasses off and absent-mindedly chews the end of one of the arms. "Could you stall him?" He gives her a sideways look. "Keep him from demanding progress reports every five minutes, at least." He can't help the small smile as he nods. Yes, that's very much like Jack. "Might give me time to figure out how to do this differently."

With a sigh, he stands up and starts walking towards Jack's office, but somehow ends up sitting beside Gwen and wrapping an arm around her. It'll be the death of him, all this caring for those around him, even when they manage to firmly put both their feet in their mouth and kickstart a mess. She pushes him away. He leans back on the sofa, thoughts spinning. Trying to find a way to get to her, to explain so many things she just doesn't seem to see.

"I know he wouldn't do things like that if he had a choice." Barely a murmur from behind a curtain of dark hair. He raises an eyebrow. Maybe, just as he thought, having a taste at making the tough decisions has finally open Gwen's eyes. At least a little.

"Why do you hate him for it, then?" It comes out harsher than he had intended, but it's hard not to be harsh with Gwen right now. She means well. She always does. But quite often things don't work out as she expects them to. Just as they didn't with Ed Morgan. Just as they didn't with Owen. Just as they didn't when she retconned Rhys – and how she thought nobody would notice the pills gone missing is anybody's guess. Just as they won't, so many times in days to come.

Because that is life. Messing it all up with the best of intentions. And realising that others do the same.

"I don't." A pause. Gwen turns towards him and this time lets him put an arm over her shoulders and drag her into a comforting half-hug. "It's not fair." Life has never been, but Gwen seems to only just be noticing that. And something inside him breaks at seeing it happen. "I guess I always thought..." He swallows. "I guess I always thought the world was a fairer place." He can't help but snort at that. He can't help but wish he hadn't. "Where good people didn't have to make terrible decisions."

"Don't lose faith just yet." She shakes her head, a bitter laugh escaping her.

"How can you say that, after today? After the last few days?" He takes a deep breath. Good question, how he manages to hold on to anything, particularly this strange belief that the Universe is not, after all, throwing shit at them just for the fun of it. He comes up empty.

"In all honesty, I don't know." He pats her in the shoulder and his eyes wander to Jack's office. Jack is pacing up and down, hands behind his back, looking almost like a caged lion. He can't even begin to imagine what is going through Jack's mind right now. After finding out the 456 are back, and that those Torchwood swore to serve decided that keeping their good name was more important than sorting this mess and sent Agent Johnson after them. After whatever nuggets of the future they are still not sure they averted that John and the other Jack may have dropped before leaving. "I just... You should hold on to it a bit more."

With a sigh, Gwen drags herself away from him, and follows his gaze. There is a moment of silence, an unspoken apology. Gwen pats his hand and tilts her head towards Jack's office.

"He seems to need you." He smiles bitterly. Everybody seems to need him recently. Never mind the fact that Ianto Jones might be falling to pieces himself. Never mind the fact that the feeling of a heavy Damocles sword over his head is still there, and that he's still not so sure he'll make it out of this alive, yet. He shakes his head, stands up and offers Gwen a hand. "And I'd better help Tosh with... whatever it is she is doing. Since I'm the one that started this..." He has to smile at that.

It takes a lot of effort to drag himself into Jack's office and close the door behind him. Jack stops pacing and stares at him from across the room, a haunted look on his eyes.

"You knew." He lets out a tired sigh. It's not even an accusation, merely a statement of fact. Jack takes a few steps towards him, but still stays out of reach, and he wants to scream. It feels a bit childish, to resent those around him for not being as understanding when he tries to keep them from harm as he is when others do.

It doesn't make the feelings any less real.

"That we could send a signal?" Jack nods. "Yeah." He moves closer, and stares at Jack defiantly. Noses almost touching. He finds himself curling his hands into fists, not entirely sure how this will play out. Sometimes he misses John, and the predictability that comes from knowing that, if John Hart is involved, everything will end in a good round of sex – or two – with maybe a fight in between. Jack, on the other hand, can sometimes be an unknown. Particularly under pressure.

"You didn't tell me." A hand settles on his cheek, and he lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. A thumb runs along his cheekbone, tracing idle patterns. A sharp contrast to the tone of Jack's voice.

"I told you... your other self, anyway. You shouldn't carry the world on your shoulders." Jack lets out a bitter laugh, but doesn't step away. He tilts his head forward, resting his forehead on Jack's. Wondering if even Jack's immortality will be enough this time. If Tosh's calculations of the power required to make this work are accurate...

"Nobody should, Ianto." He pushes the thoughts away. He closes his eyes, fighting against the flashes of memories, the many times he's seen Jack die, the many he hasn't but vividly imagines. The heartstopping pain, the doubts, the feeling that this time death may really stick. "You should be helping Toshiko. Gwen is right, we can't do this if it needs to be a child." He can hear what Jack doesn't say, the 'not unless' that always follows.

"But you expect me to just let you hook yourself to the Rift and be used as a human antenna." It does, once again, come out harsher than he intended it to, and Jack winces at the words. Jack's fingers run through his hair, and he shivers. The strange feeling of change and flux is still trickling out of his system, but now just doesn't seem to be the right time to mention it. Fact remains he doesn't even know whether something really _did_ change, and if so, what.

"I'll be okay." He snorts at that. Does Jack ever consider that his luck may run out one day? That this Time Lord, this Doctor, may have gotten it wrong, and the 'fixed point in time and space' won't last forever? Obviously not... Jack's hand settles on his cheek again, and he leans into the touch. Goes with it. Brushes his lips against Jack's.

"You'll die." Barely a murmur, because he doesn't have air for more. "The power we'll have to run through you..." He'd rather not think of the alternatives. Of something not-quite-lethal but still highly damaging. His mind flicks back to that day in the woods, with the Garg'kats, to John's knife plunging into Jack's body and the guilt and relief at the fact that decisions had, once again, been made for him.

Would he be able to do that for Jack, if it came to it?

"I'll come back." He shakes his head, not wanting to get tangled yet again in the same 'that is not the bloody point' conversation he has had with Jack more times than he can remember. "You don't have to be there, when it happens." He lets out a sigh, wondering why Jack has to be so stubborn at times.

"Of course I do." Jack kisses him, and the weight of the world he's been feeling on his shoulders, the threats, the pain, the bitterness, seems to disappear for a moment. There is a lot more he could say, he could try to explain, about _why_ , about the deaths he imagines being worse than the ones he's witnessed.

About loyalty, and how his place is by Jack's side. No matter what.

But it just doesn't seem to be the time for that, right now.


	33. Tosh

It breaks her heart.

The look on Ianto's face as the Rift opens and power courses through Jack's body. Burning, blinding and overloading every nerve, every fibre, every cell. Jack seems to cling to consciousness rather than let the waves of pain push him over to blissful darkness. Ianto simply stands there, directly in front of Jack, knuckles white as he clenches his hands on the railings. Almost forcing himself to watch, eyes fixed on Jack.

As if, somehow, his being there made it easier for Jack.

And, given the way Jack is fighting to keep his body still, to bite back the cries of agony, it might just be that it does indeed help, even if she can't really understand _why_ or _how_.

It breaks her heart.

Behind her, Gwen is hiding in Owen's arms, unable – or unwilling – to even keep her eyes open. Jack made it clear nobody had to stay – Gwen spent the last half hour fidgeting and fretting, eyeing the cog door and her bag, then Jack's office, but in the end couldn't drag herself away. Just as Gwen has never been able to drag herself away from Torchwood, and never will. It's one thing Suzie was right about. There is no life after Torchwood, because Torchwood never lets you go.

Not even when you are dead.

Owen, despite his uncaring facade, is not taking it any better. Something to do with close brushes with death, bullets that never hit him because guns jammed, weevils that almost tore him to pieces but stepped away at the last minute and almost-deadly poisons he was only lucky to have survived. The fact that his usually steady hands failed him today, and he ended up slashing the palm of his hand open while dissecting an alien corpse, and the ensuing bloody mess and swearing directing at anybody who offered to help, was nothing but a show of just how deep all this is hitting Owen.

Shaking her head, she taps at the keyboard in front of her. Monitoring power levels, waveforms, energy outputs. Eyes flickering through data, through graphs, through equations. Detaching herself from the fact that it is actually _Jack_ hooked to the transmitter. Because she knows that, if she allows herself to think of that, to focus on that, she'll just turn the whole damn thing off.

She closes her eyes for a second, welcoming the darkness, and takes a deep breath. Pushing away the voice screaming in her head, she opens her eyes again, and concentrates on the figures in front of her. There is something familiar, reassuring, in the equations, the numbers, the science. As if abstract mathematics and pure physics could never let her down.

The signal is not strong enough. For some reason, an adult body seems to dampen the wave much more than a child's. At least comparing to the simulation data she's been going by, which, given the computers in the Hub, is probably as accurate as real-life data. With a sigh, she opens the crack in the Rift a hairsbreadth more. Power levels raise, and she can only hope it'll be enough. The crack is already larger than she feels comfortable with – any more than that, and she is not sure whether the program will be able to close it down properly. Or whether the power systems in the Hub will be able to handle it.

Across the room, Ianto seems ready to jump towards Jack and pull him away from the mind probe chair. Probably not even caring that even coming close to the hastily rigged contraption they've put together cannibalising parts and pieces from other systems would most likely be lethal. Probably not even caring that unplugging Jack from the system right now would unleash a tremendous amount of energy that would have nowhere to go, other than bounce around the Hub until it could dissipate, which would probably kill them all, and maybe even seep above ground.

Taking a deep breath, she tries to block everything out. Jack's screams. Ianto's desperate looks. Gwen's refusal to admit that this is the only way. Owen's crass words about it not being really a problem since Jack, being Jack, will come back from the dead.

And she finds herself confronted by her own turmoil, her own doubts, her own pain. It's not as if she's never seen Jack die. But she's never seen him walk to his death like this, knowing full well what was coming. Knowing full well he would die. Knowing exactly how. It's always happened in the middle of chaos and mayhem and... battle. She's never seen Ianto so worried, so uncertain, so tired. She's never seen Ianto _not care_ about Owen's snark enough to drag Jack into a kiss that even from a distance spoke of determination, desperation and the threat to go to Hell to find him if Jack dared not come back to life. She's never seen Owen actually let the opportunity slip and not even say a word about it.

It breaks her heart.

In front of her, her computer beeps. The signal has reached the ship in orbit, and is being transmitted – possibly by the same column of fire they saw earlier – to Thames House. She makes a mental note to check whether that means that any of the actual aliens might have been taking shore leave, and whether that might have happened at the invitation of Whitehall.

"Is it working?" Ianto's voice makes her jump. She checks her figures, then double checks them and shakes her head. It is no doubt causing damage, but the ship is still showing no indications of even shaking more than it would while entering the atmosphere. If it is designed to enter atmosphere, that is. "Turn it up." She raises an eyebrow, not even sure how to word the questions. "He doesn't have much longer, Tosh." Barely a whisper. Barely audible from where she's standing. But oh so clear.

She can hear everything Ianto is not saying. That it will all be for nothing if Jack dies before the ship explodes, because a dead body will not conduct the wave, and the whole system will shut down. That by the time Jack comes back to life and they manage to restart the system, the ship might have put up any defences they have. That Ianto probably wouldn't be able to put himself through this – or let Jack go through this – again, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself it is necessary.

With a reticent nod, she ups the power, opening the crack in the Rift yet a bit more. Behind her, she can hear Owen motion Gwen towards the sofa, whispering nonsense to keep her calm. A hand pats her briefly on the shoulder as Owen makes his way along the gangways, getting closer to Ianto.

Just in case.

Because there is only so much pain one can allow a loved one to go through, even for the greater good. And Owen knows that, even if he never speaks about it.

Suddenly, an eerie silence falls. Jack's screams are replaced by the buzz of sparks of electricity and Rift energy creating spectacular arcs around the now lifeless body.

She can barely look at the chair.

Ianto doesn't look away, not even now.

"Did it work?" She brings a new screen up, reports of a big ball of fire seen in the sky from different points of the planet rushing in. She nods, feeling guilty about the huge sigh of relief that escapes her lips. "Shut it down!"

Her fingers shake over the keyboard, and it takes a lot of effort to hit the right keys, to carefully shut the crack in the Rift and divert all surplus energy safely, to disconnect Jack from the system. Ianto's hands tighten on the railings, and she can see him almost _shake_ with the effort to not move, to stay where he is.

Ianto bolts down the stairs almost before the word 'safe' leaves her, and kneels before Jack. Hands gently undoing the restrains on Jack's wrists and ankles, lips moving in a silent litany of 'come on Jack, don't do this to me' as they wait. She's not sure whether to keep here eyes on Jack, mind willing him to come back to life, or give Ianto some privacy.

One, two, three heartbeats, and even Gwen is standing by the railings now, biting her lips, shuffling her weight from one foot to the other. She can only hope Gwen will have more tact this time, and will leave Ianto to grieve over Jack and be the one by Jack's side if...

A painful gasp for air, and Jack's arms flail in the air, searching blindly. Ianto seems to almost jump out of his skin as he reaches for Jack's hands and brings them down, fingers closing firmly around them, murmuring quiet words she can't quite make out. Jack opens his eyes, body still slumped on the chair, and slowly sits up, never letting go of Ianto.

It's heartwarming.

But it still breaks her heart.


	34. Ianto

"I think I'm going to snap if the phone rings one more time." Gwen sounds tired as she puts the receiver back on the hook. "Suddenly _everybody_ wants to talk to us. What have we done to become so popular?" He stifles a yawn and hits send on yet another email with an official cover story for the events of the day. It's amazing how easily people will believe a half-baked lie rather than accept the truth.

Even when they are trying to cover up alien ships going up in flames and a whole government building being razed to the ground.

"Something to do with that big ball of fire in the sky." Owen slams his keyboard back on the desk and stands up, stretching his neck as he turns off the screens in front of him. "I'm off before someone else calls." Owen looks towards Tosh, who looks deep in thought. She's probably still updating the scanning programs with all the information they have collected in the last couple of days. "Anybody fancy a beer?"

"Nah." Gwen shakes her head. "Rhys is cooking tonight." Owen rolls his eyes, but for once doesn't snap back. It would seem the events of the day have had quite an impact on Owen, although no doubt such accusations would be loudly denied. "I'll be in trouble if I'm late for dinner again, I've missed way too many this week!"

"Tosh?" Owen grabs his jacket and bag and stands behind Tosh's chair. She doesn't seem to notice him until a hand falls on her shoulder and a finger tickles her neck, just below the earlobe. She smiles, looks up disconcerted, and mouths a quiet 'what?'. "Beer?" She purposefully blinks a couple of times, as if bringing herself out of that perfectly aligned mathematical world in her head and back to the one she shares with them.

"I'm in the middle of..." She points back to her screens. He finds himself smiling, remembering the many nights he had to almost drag her out of the Hub so she would go home, and the many nights it ended up being way too late for either of them to actually go home before they even noticed.

"Oh, come on, Tosh, you've been at it all day!" Gwen jumps in. There is still a cloud over her, as if she still hadn't recovered from the day. Whether what is still weighing heavy on her is Jack's death, or Jack's willingness to die to save the planet, or what would have happened if Tosh hadn't found a way to use Jack in the transmitter, he can't tell. "Take a break. Aliens are not going to try to invade again tonight."

"Are you sure about that?" He can't resist teasing her. Gwen's sempiternal optimism is a godsend in the middle of a crisis, but even now he feels the need to remind her that life is not always entirely fair, and willing things to happen doesn't really help.

One day it will sink.

That'll probably be the day she'll lose the smile.

"Well I bloody well hope so!" Gwen's phone rings again. She _growls_ before answering it. Whoever is on the other end of the line, he doesn't envy them.

Just another day in Torchwood.

With a sigh, he stands up, grabs the stack of papers on his desk and heads down to the Archives. It's going to take a while to file everything in the right place again.

Two hours later, every paper filed away, he heads back upstairs. The Hub seems to have quietened down, now that everybody has left. There is still a fair amount of cleanup to do after everything that has happened in the last few days. Not that they will be able to entirely cover it up. Not after the way the 456 controlled the children, or the way the ship exploded in orbit.

But he is still counting on people's willingness to forget anything they cannot process. After all, barely anybody speaks of Daleks, or planets in the sky. Or cybermen in London. Or Sycorax. Or countless others.

All guests in the lower levels – Weevil, pteranodon and human alike – have just been fed, and the fact that none of them is growling at him again seems to point out that he gave every one of them the right kind of food. They will still need to retcon Johnson and her men before setting them loose, but that, and everything else on his to-do list, can wait until morning.

"It's not a threat, Frobisher." He stops in his tracks as he comes up to the back door to Jack's office. Jack's voice has an icy tone to it. The tone Jack rarely uses. The one that means that Jack is deadly serious about what he is saying. The one that still reminds him of the night Jack found out about Lisa. "If you ever come after me again, don't expect me to just take it." He finds himself pushing memories away. "If you ever come after Torchwood again, you'll find out just how hard we can hit back."

He takes a couple of steps towards the stairs. Jack is on the phone, a stern expression on his face. The name, Frobisher, rings a bell. Probably from one of the many files he has gone through in the last few days, even though he can't quite place it. Not enough sleep is not conductive to good memory.

"Don't give me that, John." He stops, just before he turns the corner. Swallows. It feels wrong, spying on Jack like this. Something tells him this is one of those conversations Jack would rather nobody knew about, part of that darker side of Torchwood that Jack still refuses to share, or to even acknowledge, because he doesn't think anybody but the mighty Captain Harkness can bear the weight of it. "You _knew_ about Torchwood. You _knew_ we could help. And still you sent your hounds after me. After us."

Another long pause. He shuffles his weight from foot to foot, getting more uncomfortable by the minute. Considering a strategic retreat.

"Ianto." A quiet call that almost makes him jump out of his skin. Slowly, he makes his way up the steps towards Jack, who has one hand over the phone and is beckoning him with the other. He pulls a face. Jack winks at him, the contrast between the gesture and the voice almost dizzying. "Oh, come on, don't deny it." He takes a few more steps towards Jack's desk, and perches on the corner. Jack places a hand on his knee. "I have your little team in custody, I know the blank page went by your desk." He blinks. He knew someone was after Jack, after all of them, but to hear it put so bluntly still makes him jump. "You could have warned me, or stopped it, but you chose to ignore the fact that Torchwood could _help_. And you have no idea the chaos you would have created if you had succeeded."

He can hear the sound of another voice on the phone, even though he can't make out the words.

"You may be right." Jack looks up towards him. "But that won't stop me if you _ever_ come up against me again." With that, Jack slams the phone down and leans back on his chair. He bites back the curiosity, the need to ask. It does never really work with Jack.

"That was John Frobisher." He raises an eyebrow.

"I gathered."

"Civil servant at Whitehall." Jack lets out a sigh. "One of the few people who knew about the 456, back in 1965." Jack's fingers trace idle circles on his knee. "Most likely involved in the order to kill me, despite his protests that he was most definitely not."

Jack swallows, and he tries not to think of the fact that Jack ended up dying anyway, and in quite a gruesome way. He tries not to think of the almost apologetic look on Jack's eyes as Captain Harkness, once again, did what had to be done and walked to his death with the conviction and unfaltering step that most people associate with martyrs of good causes and men of irreproachable character.

He should say something, but he can't find the words.

"Three good people are dead because they followed orders, back then." He places a hand over Jack's. "I know the civil service are worse than cockroaches, but I thought they at least were practical enough to not shoot a potential ally down."

"You know too much." Jack nods, and he has to wonder exactly how many people in high places would love to see Jack – and the knowledge he carries with him – disappear into oblivion.

"One of the problems of a long life." Jack gives him a sad smile. "I have a long memory to go with it, for good or bad."

Jack stares at him, and it all comes crashing on him. Jack's death. Timelines snapping. Time unravelling. Two Jacks in the room. A version of John Hart that seemed less worried about being found _caring_ for those around him.

For a long moment, it looks as if Jack is about to say something, but seems to think better of it and doesn't, and he finds himself nodding an unspoken thank you to that.

"So." He raises an eyebrow. "We saved the Universe." Jack smiles, that bright smile of his that he so missed in the other Jack. That oh so bright smile he hopes Jack never loses for long.

"Multiverse." Jack growls and mutters something about John being around way too often and rubbing off onto everybody. He has to smile at that, despite the pang of concern. He can't help but wonder if John and Jack made it back in time for the ripple to catch them, if they forgot the original timeline. If John – the one that disappeared from the Hub just a few weeks ago – will eventually come back, just as the other John hinted.

"Multiverse." Jack nods and stands up. "Now, I think we deserve a little celebration."


	35. John

He finds himself in the Plass as the golden cloud of energy dissolves around him. Not bad, taking into account the timelines have sort of just reverted to what they should be and this whole century is now a bloody minefield when it comes to ending up in the right time and the right place when time travelling. Around him, the usual crowd of tourists and locals is starting to thin, leaving just a few stragglers behind; soon, the night shift will come out, and Mermaid Quay will be busy again.

On the nearer side of the Plass, somebody is standing near the base of the water tower. As he approaches, something stirs inside him. He knows that stance, hands on hips and tilted head that is no doubt accompanied by a piercing glare and the promise of eternal trouble and decaf – well, not really eternal, only until apologies are issued. He knows that suit, the one with the pinstripes that looks as prim and proper with the jacket as it does right now, without it, waistcoat still buttoned.

Even after what feels like too long without him, he would recognize Ianto anywhere.

Leaning on the railings that surround the Plass, he looks around, trying to determine the target of Ianto's displeasure. He can barely stifle a laugh when he looks up and notices the stickers on the water tower. Strawberries, of all things. Something to do – according to the banners all over the place – with some festival or another.

No doubt nobody thought of consulting Torchwood before sticking those awful things.

No doubt someone will next time.

When Ianto gets closer to the tower and starts scraping off one of the lower stickers, muttering what sounds like a litany of curses, he laughs out loud. Ianto spins around, almost dropping the scraper when he sees him, a smile replacing the frown on his face. As he walks towards him, right hand on his sword, he finds it hard not to run and snog the living lights out of Ianto, here and now, just to convince himself he is really alive and kicking and scraping stupid stickers off Torchwood property on what feels like a Friday evening.

"How are you going to manage the rest of them, Eye Candy?" Ianto is still staring, as if he didn't really believe what his eyes are telling him. Probably taking in every detail and figuring out more than is healthy. "You don't happen to have an aerial platform or some kind of levitating device in your pocket, do you?"

He stops barely a step away, hands gripping tightly on his gun belt, waiting. Waiting for Ianto to come to him; after all, he disappeared, without an explanation, close to two months ago – he couldn't get any closer to the moment he left. And how it still bothers him that his internal clock still seems to be off and doesn't provide precise-to-the-second times.

There are a lot things he _could_ say, but Ianto would probably think he's not himself if he apologised. Because John Hart does not apologise. Not just yet, anyway. Though given the way his future self was behaving... Probably never will, given that Ianto is still here, alive and kicking. So he just raises an eyebrow, gives Ianto that come-and-fuck-me smile. Opens his arms, all invitation.

When he finally moves, Ianto almost pounces on him more than hugs him. Ianto's shirt is slightly damp from where it touched the tower, even though the water is not running. So are the hands running through his hair. Ianto doesn't say a word, just squeezes him tightly and breathes deeply. There are a lot of things he _wants_ to say, but the knot in his throat is too tight, and he can't really find his voice. So he just holds Ianto. Settles his head on Ianto's shoulder, enjoying the simple feeling of being _here_ and _now_ , where Ianto is alive and the Hub is still in one piece and hopefully both will stay that way at least a bit longer.

Ianto pulls away, that rare genuine smile on his face, and brings a hand to his neck, holding him, running thumbs along his jawline. Dives in for a kiss, only to stop barely a hairsbreadth away from him.

"Paralysing lip gloss or any other kind of trick up your sleeve that I should worry about, Captain?" He's got to give it to Ianto, the kid can keep a cool head. Nothing else can explain the fact that one of his own guns is currently in Ianto's hand, pressed to his side. Aimed in a way that a shot would hurt like hell, but not be lethal. He smiles. Pulls a face. Shakes his head. Ianto doesn't move.

"No tricks." Not of that kind, anyway. After everything he and other versions of himself have done to keep this place in one piece, he's not going to let all his work go to waste: anybody wanting to harm, maim, or in any other way damage Torchwood property or employees is going to get the very bad side of Captain John Hart. Sharp blades and bullets first.

As Ianto finally slides the gun back into its holster, he can't help but think that nobody should be allowed to make handling weapons feel so sexy. When Ianto brings his hand back to his neck and kisses him like there's no tomorrow, he doesn't even have the presence of mind to wonder what happened to that veneer of shyness that seemed to reappear on Ianto when in public.

Not that he misses it.

It feels good. It feels right. Around him, time no longer feels wrong, or bent, or displaced. Despite how much he tried to downplay it when he met his future self, he could feel it, once John mentioned it. He can't even begin to imagine what it must have been like closer to the tear in time. This, the passion, the promise dressed as a reunion kiss, the look on Ianto's face just before he closed his eyes, is exactly why he came here in the first place. Well, in the second – the first one involved a maniac and a molecularly bonded bomb.

When Ianto pulls away again, he is panting. Damn Ianto Jones and his ability to have him like this without even ruffling his own hair. Ianto picks up the scraper and stands on the invisible lift. He steps onto the kerb stone and taps a couple of buttons on his wriststrap before Ianto has a chance to do anything but shoot him a questioning look.

"Jack loves surprises." True, even if not what Ianto wanted to hear. But the last thing he wants now is having to explain he's the only person in the whole Universe who remembers a timeline that never happened, and carries the scars for it. Ianto doesn't need to know how he won't die, or how Jack – and he himself – won't deal with his death. Not that he has any details about it, but what his future self let slip was more than enough to read between the lines. Jack doesn't need to add the deaths of Toshiko and Owen, deaths that never happened, to that bloody roll of honour he keeps in his head.

Ianto keeps a hand on the small of his back as the lift descends. He's not entirely sure whether Ianto is reassuring him or trying to make sure he is really there. Probably both. Around him, the Hub is just as he left it: the dragon that Tosh painted on the dam wall, plants still somehow surviving in the hot house, water pooling at the bottom of the tower.

"Ianto, if you need a hand with those strawberries I'm sure I could call..." Jack's voice breaks as he comes out of the office, looks up and nearly drops the folders he is carrying. By the time the lift reaches its place at the bottom of the Hub, Jack is standing by it, one of those annoying scanners in his hand and pointed at him.

"Oh, come on, Jack, don't you have more interesting ways of checking whether it is really me?" Ianto steps down and stands behind Jack, peeking over his shoulder to the readings on the scanner. He pulls a face, tucks his thumbs on his gun belt and lets out a sigh. "Have it your way, then." Of course, it is more banter than actual resentment. After all, as far as Torchwood know, he was taken against his will. And it wouldn't be the first time hewalks in here with a bomb hidden in his body. "Hope you lot have improved those things while I've been away."

He's barely finished the sentence when Jack tosses the scanner towards Ianto and drags him down from the kerb stone into a hug, almost making him lose his footing. Hands sneak under his jacket – Jack knows only too well how many weapons he can conceal in his clothes. Fingers dig on his sides, warm and demanding and saying all the things Jack won't say, all the 'I missed you' and 'I was worried' and 'where were you?'.

Behind Jack, Ianto doesn't look away, just seems to take in the sight and enjoy it. With a smile, he offers Ianto a hand and pulls him towards them when he takes it. It reminds him a little of that time when Jack came out of cryostasis just in time to take them out of the Vaults and clean up the mess Gray left behind, when Gwen and Ianto clung to Jack as if trying to make sure he was real.

"All we need now is the rest of your little team and we can have that orgy I never got when I first visited." He aims for carefree, but his voice is shaking. When Jack gives him a not-entirely-playful slap on the back of the head, he rubs the ache absent-mindedly and glares back.

"Gwen is a married woman." He snorts – that never used to be a problem for Jack. "Owen would much rather have your head on a plate, and you know it." That one makes him laugh out loud. "And Toshiko is too much of a lady for you." The quiet smile Ianto tries to hide tells him there is more to Tosh than meets the eye. "Besides, I'd say Ianto and I are more than you can handle." At that, Ianto laughs, quietly, and holds him a bit tighter before patting his back and letting go.

"What did I tell you, Eye Candy?" He turns towards Ianto and raises an eyebrow. "Thinks himself the centre of the fucking Universe." With that, he starts walking towards the corridors, leaving Jack and Ianto, still surprised, by the water tower. "My room is still where I left it, I suppose."

"Well..." Steps clatter behind him as Ianto catches up with him. "Jack did think about turning it into storage, but..."

"He's joking!" Jack's voice booms in the open space as he walks towards his office. Ianto shakes his head, grave expression on his face before he breaks into a smile. "I never said anything about storage!"

"What happened to you?" He's barely closed the door behind him when the question hits him. He finds it very difficult to sidestep it, to not give Ianto a straightforward and honest answer. So, as he takes of his gun belt and drops it by the bedside table, making a note to attach some supports to the wall to hang his sword, he ponders what to tell Ianto.

"Time went a little crazy." As close to the truth as he'll ever go. "Generally not much of a problem, but I – my future selves, that is – forgot their manners and were too busy saving the Multiverse to worry about me."

He turns around to Ianto, who's comfortably sitting on the edge of the bed; the meaningful look he gives him gets a curt nod in reply. With a bit of luck – and barring major disasters that may require to explain exactly what he meant by that cryptic explanation – Ianto won't force the subject. Gotta be grateful for that eerie way in which Ianto knows how far he can push people for answers.

Taking off his jacket, he folds it carefully and drapes it on the back of a chair; Ianto looks amused, and he can nearly see the questions he's buzzing to ask. When he sits on the bed to take his boots off, Ianto gives him a small smile. He can't help but stop, halfway through unbuckling his left boot, and just drink in the sight. Still unruffled Ianto, collar buttoned up, tie in place, but there is something about Ianto in shirtsleeves, jacket discarded. A slight unpolished edge under all the prim and proper façade, maybe.

He still can't believe he's managed to pull this off. Tosh was never shot by Gray. Owen never died in that nuclear power plant, never died and was brought back to life, never became a living corpse. Jack was never buried for two thousand years – at least not by his hand. So many changes to the timelines, and so far no unwanted consequences. Not that it means much, not having found side effects yet – they could still creep up. But it's not a bad start.

"Something has changed." His heart almost stops for a moment as Ianto stares at him. Defiant, stubborn, demanding in that soft way of his. "I'm sure of it." He shakes his head firmly. "And _you_ have something to do with it." Ianto pauses for a second, staring at him, as if taking in every detail. "I see."

It should surprise him that Ianto has noticed, but it doesn't. Caught in a ripple within a ripple, it's no wonder Ianto felt it. The surprising thing is that _nobody else_ has. Jack seems to be losing his touch when it comes to Time.

He takes a deep breath, head still spinning, timelines mixing in his head, the past that he remembers with the past that he created. He knew this would happen. The changes he made are too significant, too many, making the ripple too fast. He knew he wouldn't be back in time to catch it. He rolls his eyes. Next time he has the brilliant idea of volunteering for killing headaches and double memories just to keep _somebody_ alive he'll have to remind himself of this one.

"See what, Eye Candy?" He aims for light-hearted but probably doesn't even come close. Ianto leans towards him, barely a hairsbreadth way but still keeping out of reach.

"Your future self dragged you into this, didn't he?" It should surprise him that Ianto can so easily tell him apart form other versions of himself, but it doesn't. Not in the slightest. If anybody could notice all the little details that differentiate a man from himself in twenty years time, it would be Ianto Jones. Who probably keeps tabs of the number of scuff marks in his boots and the knives stashed in his jacket at different points in time.

"Dragged me into what?" He puts on his most innocent smile, knowing full well Ianto won't be fooled by it. But he has to try anyway. Ianto stares at him. Simply stares. He waits it out. "What has my other self been telling you?" He lets out a sigh, eventually admitting defeat. Ianto raises an eyebrow, and he can almost see the cogs turning, pieces being put together. "And where is my other self, anyway?"

"Jack sent him home." A pause, silence heavy, and he allows himself to relax just a fraction. "With the other Jack." It is his turn to shoot Ianto an inquisitive look, to try and find out just how much Ianto knows. Ianto sighs and for a moment looks like a man carrying heavy secrets on his shoulders. "So the ripple would catch them." He nods, acknowledging everything Ianto isn't saying. So that Jack had a chance at not remembering the awful future that won't happen. So that he himself won't get a Hell of a headache when he catches up with his future self. "I'm not even going to ask why he dragged you into this."

"Does that mean you are finally beginning to trust me?" Ianto just gives him an undecipherable smile, hands coming up to adjust his tie, one of them then disappearing in a pocket. He has to wonder what Ianto is not telling him.

"You should know the answer to that." A flash of red in Ianto's hands catches his eye. "At least your future self should." Without warning, Ianto tosses the small object to him. The touch of silk on his skin as he catches it is almost electric. "Keep it. As a reminder."

It's a small decorative knot, the kind that one would attach to a keyring or the hilt of a sword, made of red rope. Quite likely the same rope he saw in the flashes of memory in the memory cube he... borrowed from his future self during their little encounter in the hospital. Not that he could replay it entirely – his presence was not enough to trigger it properly, but enough to give him an idea of exactly what his other self had been up to.

"Reminder?" He raises an eyebrow, pretending not to know what Ianto is talking about, but something tells him Ianto is too good to be fooled. "Of what?" Ianto doesn't answer. "Oh, come on, Eye Candy, you can't drop something like this on my lap and not give me the _details_." Ianto snorts in a way that sounds dangerously close to 'watch me'.

"Anything you need?" Ianto stands up and takes a couple of steps towards the door. "We could get takeaway in if you..." He grabs Ianto's hand as he goes by and pulls him back onto the bed, ignoring what sounds like a complaint about it.

"Do you think Jack would like to join?" He smiles like the cat that got the cream. Slowly, Ianto brings out his headset, puts it on and gives it a tap.

"Jack? Care to join us, or shall we start without you?" A pause, then a laugh, another tap, and the headset vanishes back into Ianto's pocket. "He's on his way."


End file.
